


these kinda wounds they last and they last

by Syster



Series: Shaken, not stirred [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Fake Dating, It has a lot of Kingsman in there, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, in chapter 3, there are codenames and stuff, will tag more as characters appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9518663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syster/pseuds/Syster
Summary: “They say he’s the best.” Yuri says, and while it’s easy to forget sometimes, since he’s a genius, talented and endlessly brash, but right now, he truly looks fourteen years old, “They say he’s the one that stopped the Dauntless last year.”“Dauntless, huh?” Georgi sends a look to Viktor who gives a small smile back, careful to hide it from Yuri, “Never heard of them.”“Exactly.” Yuri says, looking at the door to their conference room with shining eyes.Or: When agents of the different super secret services around the world starts going rogue, Viktor Nikiforov is tasked with finding out what’s going on. Japan, shamed by being the latest to have an agent turn traitor, sends their best, the son of legendary super spy Hiroko Katsuki, to help out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Undisclosed skyscraper, Moscow, Russia. 11th december, 20XX.**

 

It’s funny, Viktor thinks, that the thought of dying doesn’t bring the rush of adrenaline fueled fear any longer. Nowadays the threat of death is just a dull fact of life, just like the parties he keeps going to in order to protect another rich man with whom his superiors wants to keep alive for one reason or another. It’s odd, he thinks, that even now, beset upon by a glassy eyed waitress who wields a knife in the same way a warrior would wield a sword, that there is little inside of him, just a quiet, empty feeling of nothing.

 

The woman is asian, probably japanese, and manages to look like everyone else even while going after his eyes with sharpened cutlery. Viktor isn’t sure that he would be able to describe her with any sort of accuracy even after fighting her for the better part of two minutes, having had her choking him at one point. The only thing he knows he will remember is her dark, glossy eyes with red blossoming around her irises like ice ferns spreading over glass in winter.

 

Viktor had confronted her, believing her to be a timid and frightened waitress bribed into allowing access to a gunman who had tried to kill aforementioned oligarch. Viktor had thrown the gunman over a ledge before he had even gotten close enough to smell the sweetness of the lavender threaded through the silken braids hanging over the magnificent rooftop party. Same party as  where the oligarch and some similar minded friends where convincing themselves that the models hanging of their arms were there for the charming conversation, and not the jewelry and hefty envelopes of cash they would receive at the end of the night. Imagine his surprise when the waitress had turned on him, procuring a knife from a warehouse trolley laden with a plethora of expensive wine bottles and then promptly swung it against him. It had caught the edges of his undone bow tie as he moved out of the way, tearing the expensive fabric in two. Had Viktor been less preoccupied by the suddenly mad and swinging woman in front of him, he probably would’ve lamented the loss of such an expensive item that brought out the color of his eyes in just the right way.

 

She moves to strike again and Viktor blocks her blow with his forearm. He uses the heavy momentum she swings with to quickly dislodge her balance with a sweeping kick to her legs. It’s not enough to bring her down, of course, but it is enough to give Viktor the time he needs to unbutton his dark blue and incredibly expensive tuxedo jacket (gossamer peaked lapels and gorgeously crafted buttons, he was the only one that could pull off a color so bold and lapels so pointed at an event that clearly stated that the desired dress code was somber and black) in order to allow him to move with some degree of freedom.

 

She finds her balance, her face twisted into a grimace, teeth bared and shoulders low. Viktor takes a stance, feets apart, hips even, core settled and waits for her to move. She prowls around him, her knuckles turning white from where her hand grasps the knife like a lifeline. It is a second, maybe two, of stark anticipation. Between one breath and the next, she lunges forward. Viktor blocks her incoming blows with little difficulty, but she hits hard and desperately, and she is smart enough to use the knife to make him have to move, which keeps his balance slightly off. Her constant barrage of hits makes it difficult for him to find an opening, and the longer he blocks, the more tired he gets. He has to find an opening, or  _ make _ an opening, soon enough. He ducks under one of her next swings, a risky move that could be an opportunity but might just as well end up being the move that kills him, and levels a strike against her side. By some luck, and as a testament to Viktor’s rigorous and extremely good training, the strike makes her arm twist in from pure reflex. He grabs the arm in his grip as he straightens and slams it into the wall, once, twice, until the knife drops from her fingers. It clatters against the floor and Viktors swiftly kicks it aside, making it glide underneath one of the heavy duty industrial shelves. In the next moment, he quickly aims a kick against her left knee, breaking it between his, frankly gorgeous, wing-tipped leather shoes and the concrete wall. The sound of pain she makes is guttural, low and hissing. Viktor, knowing that the only way to calm Yakov down after throwing a gunman down twentynine levels onto a busy central street is to bring the waitress in alive, tightens his grip but doesn’t go in to break her neck. Her hand is broken, and Viktor knows he cracked at least two of her ribs with his previous blow, but there isn’t a single ounce of pain in her twisted face, only consuming, blank, anger.

 

Viktor takes a breath, chest heaving, and starts to speak, “Look, if you just -”

 

The waitress twists her entire body in his grasp, bringing her head forward in a sharp snap, and Viktor hears the soft  _ crunch _ of his nose breaking against her forehead. His eyes tear up and he takes a couple of steps back before she charges him again, broken leg hanging after her like a sack of useless meat and bone. She throws herself against him, making him slam into the shelves behind them, her unbroken hand grabs a fistful of his silver hair and she slams his head back again, a dull sound is made as skull connects to industrial steel. She brings his head forward, prepares to strike and -

 

This isn’t a good enough story, Viktor thinks. He might not be particularly scared of dying, and would, perhaps, on his worst days even welcome the embrace of death, but  _ this _ , dying in the storeroom of an ugly rich man, brain splattered across concrete floor and expensive wine bottles while dressed in his second best tux, is not a good enough death for Viktor and it's certainly not good enough for  _ Akhmatova _ , the most soulful of the Acmeist poets.

 

Viktor twists his legs, catching her waist as she prepares to slam his head again, using the leverage to get on top of her. Her broken leg makes a sickening sound as it doesn’t move proper with the rest of her, making her entire weight land on the twist of it. The pain, instinctual and animalistic, makes her grip slacken. Viktor presses his forearm against her throat, stretching it taut, pushes harder and with a  _ snap _ her vertebra dislodges from the spine and she goes limp.

 

Viktor coughs, once, and groans as he pushes off her. He presses a hand against his nose as he stands up, looking at the woman he just killed. Yakov is going to revoke his access to his tailor for a  _ month _ . He sighs and presses the minute hand of his expensive clock, moving it so it and the hour hand is in a perfect V _. _ The clock face flashes once before the tone of digits being dialed is heard.

 

“ _ Akhmatova? _ ” Georgi’s voice is slightly muffled in his ear, and Viktor grimaces as he presses the expensive silk of his jacket against his nose to stem the bleeding, “ _ What is your status? _ ”

 

Viktor is about to answer as there is sudden  _ beeping _ sound coming from the dead woman, the thin skin behind her ear flashing red three times before -

 

The explosion isn’t large, it’s designed to only take out the front of the woman’s face, to make identification far more difficult. Viktor only knows this because he has the same chip imbedded in the soft skin behind his ear. Brain and blood and bits of teeth splatter over his shoes, his clothes and his face. Viktor blinks, moving his hand to remove part of an optic nerve that fell across his lip.

 

“ _ Akhmatova,  _ **_status_ ** _. _ ” Georgi says again, tone more forceful. Viktor just sighs before he answers, already moving towards the trolley with the expensive wine.

 

“Threats annihilated.” He leans against a wall, bending down to see if the bumbling idiot he just broke his nose to protect actually had a good taste in wine, and finds a decent bottle of Louis Latour (which is, frankly, at the moment,  _ good enough _ ) and a corkscrew before continuing, “Ivanov, tell Gorodetsky I need to talk to him.” He looks over at the now faceless body of the waitress he thought would be the least of his problems tonight, and uncorks the bottle with a bit more force than necessary, “We have a problem.”

  
  


**A shady and, frankly, rather shabby pub, St. Petersburg, Russia. 13th december 20XX.**

 

The bell over the door makes a shrill sound as he enters. The freezing cold of St. Petersburg slips into the pub, bringing with it brushes of snow and ice. It’s almost empty, save for the crum-looking older man handling the bar and the three resident drunks pretending to keep an eye on the television which is showing a rerun of a twenty year old soap opera. It is familiar, in an odd sort of way, and Viktor finds that some tension leaves his shoulders.

 

“Viktor.” The man at the bar says with as much enthusiasm as an siberian man greeting another day of harsh winter, “Heard you got killed.”

 

Viktor, who looks slightly out of place in his rose gold three piece suit and grey burberry coat, gives a charming smile and tilts his head to look at the bartender over his gold-rimmed sunglasses,

 

“Oh, Petrov,” he says, not knowing if it's the bartenders actual name or if it’s just the first one that popped into Viktor’s head, “You know me better than that, don’t you?” He finishes it off with a bright smile, leaning over the slightly sticky countertop.

 

Petrov, or whatever his actual name is, gives him a deeply unimpressed look and shakes his head before making a sharp motion towards the men’s room.

 

“They’ve been waiting for almost an hour.” He rubs a hand over the day old stubble coating his heavy jaw, “You should get going.”

 

“Always a pleasure, Petrov.” Viktor says with a mocking salute before making his way towards the door marked  _ Men _ at the back of the pub. He pushes it open and goes to stand in front of the least cleaned and most disgusting urinal in the room, counting five tiles to the left and two down from a fissure in the porcelain, pressing his fingers to the tile until he hears a soft  _ click _ . The head of the pipes on top of the urinal slides to the side to reveal a glowing red dot. Viktor leans down and lets it scan his left eye. There is a moment of silence, before there is another, louder, click.

 

The machinery behind the wall starts to whirr and Viktor straightens his tie, removing a piece of lint from his shoulder as the urinal falls into the wall, the tiles shifting around it to reveal a long, grey corridor.

 

“Welcome, Akhmatova.” A pleasantly level and inherently female automated voice says as Viktor steps into the corridor, pressing his hand onto the pad to his left which scans it as the wall behind him starts to snap back into place, “You have been gone for seventy five days and seven hours. Gorodetsky has left a message for you.” The wall closes behind him and there is a moment of darkness, before the incandescent lights sparks into life, the floor of the corridor shifting into stairs going downwards as Yakov’s voice rings out in the closed space.

 

“Viktor, I would like to remind you that just because you refuse to answer our calls does not mean we don’t know where you are. I would like to talk to you,  _ soon _ , about responsibility, the value of sobriety, and about how the rocket function of your car is supposed to be used for emergencies and not for you to impress whatever flirt of the night you manage to pick up.“ Viktor smirks and moves down the stairs as there is sigh before the old man continues, “Makkachin is with Mila. Go get her and then come to the briefing room. Welcome home, Vitya.”

 

“It’s good to be home.” Viktor says, continuing down the winding stairs, and finds that the statement is only barely a lie.

  
  
  


**The headquarters of the Acmeists, St. Petersburg, Russia. 13th of december, 20XX.**

 

Viktor rubs over the soft fur behind Makkachin’s ears and he coos softly at her as she huffs into his face, softly nosing around the bruises marring the ridge of his nose and the lines of his eyes. His nose is a lot better already, the doctor in Moscow had promised him that in a week or two there would be no visible clue to the nose ever having been broken. Which is lucky since Viktor’s flawless looks is as important to his work as his fighting skills, even if Yakov continuously calls him vain. 

 

“Viktor.” Ah, speak of the devil. Yakov looks stern, blue eyes shifting with the simmering rage that seems to be ever present in the old man just below the surface, and when Viktor looks up at him with a bright smile and hands still in Makkachin’s fur, he shakes his head with a sigh so heavy it could sink a ship. “Do you live to make my life difficult?” He starts, and Viktor doesn’t answer since he knows that Yakov doesn’t really want him to, “A dead body on the sidewalk of Moscow’s business street? Do you have any idea how many people I had to call in order to make it disappear?” Yakov frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “We are supposed to be ghosts, Vitya. If we wanted bodies thrown off the roof, the mission would’ve been given to the KGB.”

 

Viktor waves his hand in a rather flippant way in response to the older man’s concerns and groans a bit as he stands up, his knees hurting ever so slightly after squatting. He is only twenty seven, but for as an active spy, he could as well be a hundred. When his legs are straight, he stretches his back slightly, giving his old sponsor a broad, slightly heart shaped, grin.

 

“Ah, but you took care of it, yes?” Viktor has never been the least visible of their agents, that honour still goes to Georgi, but he’s still the  _ best _ , even if he preferred flashy suits, golden cuffs and a bright smile over the usual subterfuge. Yakov had told him, more than once, that he would’ve been a better fit for the british Kingsmen, or the italian Calciatori, who placed some value in showmanship. Viktor usually just laughed at such statements, and would answer that he did not like the thick-rimmed glasses of the Kingsmen and was not overly fond of the single-cut suits the italians wore, and did not mention (he didn’t need to), that despite it all, he was the best active agent in the entirety of the Acmeists, and definitely amongst the best in all of the different super secret agencies of the world. If you asked Yakov on a good day, like the one when Viktor had dismantled an entire kingpins operation without firing a single shot, he would’ve called Viktor the best (if Viktor weren’t in the proximity, of course). If you asked him on a day like today, he would grudgingly admit that Viktor was not a completely lost cause but that the silver-haired man would probably die in a ditch strangled with his own, overly expensive, tie.

 

“Of course I took care of it.” Yakov grumbles out, his heavy brows heaving into a frown on his forehead, making the Viktor caused wrinkle that runs from temple to temple to deepen. Viktor followed the motion with the kind of detached interest only a man who had seen it a thousand times before could do, “It’s the principal of the matter.”

 

Viktor rolls his eyes in response to that, which is entirely beneath him and from the way Yakov slowly, like a slowly ripening tomato, goes red in anger, the older man thinks so too. Luckily, whatever rant that Viktor would have to ignore was cut short by the arrival of young Yuri Plisetsky.

 

Being very much the opposite of a gentleman, Yuri announces his arrival by slamming the door open with more noise than a mere door should be able to make while looking as if though he is making ready to rip Viktor’s throat out with his teeth.

 

“Old man!” Yuri growls out through clenched teeth, green eyes narrowing underneath his blonde fringe, “What the fuck was that?” He’s wearing purple, leopard print and bright red shoes, looking very much like the lovechild of all the least fashionable glam artists of the seventies threw up on him, “You promised you were going to take me with you the next time you had a mission.” Yuri Plisetsky was one of the handpicked trainees that was being molded and formed into being ready to take the place of an active agent whenever one didn’t manage to be faster than a bullet. Young, bright and a genius in many different ways, Yuri was a shoe-in for a place at the big boys table. All he needed was a sponsor. And Viktor, being the best, was the one he had decided to take.

 

“Hello, Yuri.” Viktor says, brightly, and Makkachin pads over to the young man to lick his hand. Yuri pretends not to notice, but Viktor notices the slight pat Yuri gives Makkachins head once he thinks no one is watching, “Ah, I am sorry. I must have forgotten.”

 

“You fucking -” Yuri starts, pulling air into his lungs, seemingly preparing to pull himself into every inch of his 5 foot tall body, but Yakov expertly, with the air of someone who has been dealing with teenagers for far longer than he would prefer to think about, shuts them both down with a low growl.

 

“Both of you, stop. This isn’t the time.” He runs a hand over his eyes, shaking his head as he motions to the heavily barred door on the other side of the door. “Gumilev is waiting, and if you  _ behave _ -” he says, looking mostly at Yuri but also glancing at Viktor, “I’ll let you sit on the meeting.”

 

Yuri who not only possesses the kind of dizzying talent that only comes along once a generation but also the absolute thirst for more knowledge, quickly shuts up. Viktor snickers a bit at that, which earns him another murderous glare. They are pulled away from the escalation of their rivalry/friendship by the opening of the heavy steel door. Mila, known as Mandelstam by the slightly outdated virtual intelligence system running through their headquarters, leaves the room. One of the assistants, a nervous looking blonde woman, is quietly talking to Mila underneath their breath. Mila doesn’t stop to say hi or exchange pleasantries, but she takes the time to ruffle Yuri’s hair and give Viktor a rather serious nod and less serious wink before she and her companion exit through the other door.

 

Yakov makes a motion towards the door, which remains open. Viktor straightens his tie, and even Yuri makes an effort to pull the edges of his purple and pink leopard printed jacket into a more acceptable state.

 

The room is dark and lighted only by slightly dim filaments of light running through the thick concrete walls like threads of nerves through skin. The room is slightly rectangular and Lilia Baranovskaya, known as Gumilev, waits for them at the end of it. The bench at the end, not unlike a judge's bench with a spartan designed A carved with silver and gold into its front, is designed to be large, and intimidating, and to make them crane their neck to look at her and the empty seven chairs around her.

 

“Closer.” Lilia speaks, afforded the highest name and the highest rank amongst those who could still call themselves part of the Acmeists. After he obeys her command, Viktor bows slightly, just a slight movement of his back, and schools his face into a soft, and dangerous, smile. There is a slight flicker, and the empty chairs are suddenly occupied by the holograms of their superiors.

 

“Akhmatova.” Lilia’s voice rings out through the room, her tone the type that only comes with years of expecting to be obeyed, “Your report is a troubling one.” There is a murmur of agreement from a couple of the holograms, but most of them are just staring down at him, faces unmoving. There is a slight tug on the back of his jacket and he moves slightly to shield Yuri from view, before he nods in response.

 

“I don’t know what would make the Salarymen send an agent into our territory without disclosing it to us, especially to kill one of our countrymen.” Viktor hadn’t worked often with their japanese equivalent, but then again, their business rarely overlapped. “Did the autopsy reveal anything?”

 

Lilia shakes her head, “Nothing out of the ordinary, since she was an agent. Fingerprints were burnt off, of course, and there was the general enhancements that the Japanese are so fond off. This confirms little except that she was probably one of their Named agents.” There is a pause, after that, because sending an agent is one thing, but to send a named one is quite another.

 

“What do the Salarymen say?” Yakov says from his side, tapping his finger against his lips, “They can not keep their radio silence in the face of such evidence.” Lilia sits back, folding her long and spindly fingers in front of her chin,

  
“They did not.” There is something ghosting over her thin lips, it might have been called a smile, “From what they say, their agent broke rank. She was not here on their orders.” She holds up a hand before he, or Yakov, can say anything. “We have no reason to not believe them -”

 

“You mean aside from their agent trying to kill me?” Viktor says, a bit blandly, and Lilia sends her one of her patented Looks and continues without pausing,

  
“- and once we told them about what had happened, they relayed something that was  _ quite _ troubling.” Lilia makes a sharp motion with her hand, and the empty wall behind her flashes into life, becoming a screen where a collection of images flickers slightly before settling into something readable. The words are japanese for a couple of moments before the VI does her work and translates them into russian. The images are three files and one of them, Viktor recognises.

 

She looks better, the woman who tried to kill him, without the redness and blankness of her eyes. Her name has been blacked out, of course, but at least they let the image stay. Next to her is the files of two other agents. Neither of them are familiar, but one of them wears the slightly ill-fitting suits that signifies the scandinavian secret service while the other looks to be no one special at all, with the slightly pale and ghostly face that usually signifies someone that spends most of their time in front of a computer.

 

“James McElroy,” Lilia starts, tapping on the desk in front of her, bringing up the file of the first man, “One of the Statesmen informants at EvilCorp.” There is another flickers as the image turns into surveillance ones and they show James buying coffee and in front of his computer, both at work and at home. Viktor wonders what kind of life a man would have when those are the three most descriptive photos the best surveillance systems in the world could dig up on you. He also wonders what would make a man like that turn into an informant for the least subtle super secret service in the world. “Three months ago, he suddenly walks up to one of the heads of the company -” there is another picture, of blank-eyed James stalking towards someone that looks vaguely familiar in the way extremely rich people often do, that even if you don’t know who they are you’ve  _ seen _ them, somewhere, sometime, “- and stabs him.” The next shot is James, face gone, slumped over.

 

Viktor tilts his head as the next image is brought up, “Daniel Lindgren. Low-level agent of the Diplomats, mostly acting as a translator.” Three images, each of them depicting Daniel with his children, his wife or his mistress. “Same thing. One month ago, he stabs a visiting dignitary.”

 

“And then her.” Yakov finishes, makes a motion towards the minimized window depicting Viktor’s would-be killer, “Who was the gunman?”

 

Lilia shrugs, “As far as we know? A lucky coincidence.” Her voice is tightly coiled and sharp, and Viktor knows, as anyone knows who have been trained by her, that Lilia does not believe in coincidences. She taps the desk again, bringing the three images of the three traitor agents next to each other, “We were lucky Akhmatova was there.”

 

“Always willing to serve.” Viktor says, brightly, saluting in the way that had made his superiors in the KGB flush red with anger, but just made Lilias lip twitch ever so slightly. The holograms, despite just being holograms, practically  _ ooze  _ disapproval.

 

“We don’t know why they’re going rogue, or even  _ if _ they are going rogue.” Lilia continues, making a dismissive gesture with her left hand, making the screen behind her go dark, “But what we do know is that three times is three times too many, and we need to know what is going on. “The Salarymen has agreed to send their best, in order to help out.” She tilts her chin, makes the harsh light off the veiny lights cast her in impressive shadows, “We have been advised to take it.”

 

Viktor can think of a thousand reasons to why this is a bad idea, but when he looks up at Lilia, he sees that she can probably think of a thousand and one and still judged this the best course of action. So instead of giving any kind of glib response, he inclines his head, waits for the holograms to incline theirs back before flickering into darkness. 

 

Viktor is just about to leave when Lilia speaks again, her voice harsh.

 

“Don’t disappoint me, Viktor.”

 

“Do I ever?”

  
  


**The Grand Hotel of St Petersburg, St Petersburg. Russia. 13th of December, 20XX**

“Did you change your clothes  _ again? _ ” Georgi says, shaking his head as he holds the door open for Viktor to exit the car. Viktor, wearing a sky blue suit and light rose and gold sunglasses just gives him a dazzling smile,

 

“Georgi, just because you own fifteen sets of the same suit does not mean I have to.”

 

“It’s not  _ fifteen _ .” Georgi mutters, under his breath. “And I can’t believe you brought little Yuri.”

 

“I am not  _ little _ .” Comes the almost immediate response from the other side of the car, and Yuri scrambles out from behind Viktor. He had wanted to come, and Viktor had mostly agreed because it made Yakov look as if though he had swallowed an entire bowl of lemons. He had managed to wrestle Yuri into a blazer before leaving, which surprisingly enough made him look even less presentable than he had before.

 

“He asked me, very nicely.” There is a motion to his left, a black-haired young man wearing an ill fitting black suit and a frankly horrendous tie moves forward, stretching a hand out. Viktor presses the keys to the car into his hand, together with a freshly pressed fifty dollar bill, continuing without pausing, “And besides, if I am to sponsor him, it will be good for him to have some knowledge of our overseas brothers and sisters.”

 

“I can’t believe you actually asked  _ nicely _ just because there is a chance this contact is going to be Hiroko Katsuki’s son.” Georgi says, rolling his eyes as Viktor gives a charming smile to the woman at the reception desk, who blushes before giving them the number of the room for their meeting. Viktor takes a bit longer than necessary, is a bit too charming, but there is a certain restlessness aching along his spine that he doesn’t know how to deal with in any other way. In the end, Yuri is the one to drag him away, continuing on the conversation they had to halt because of their proximity to  _ ordinary _ people.

 

“A chance?” Yuri scoffs, pulling his hood down over his eyes and pulling on the edges of the dark blue blazer, “You heard what Gumilev said. They were sending their  _ best _ .” There is a certain fervour to Yuri’s voice when he says that, which makes Viktor blink down at him, “Who else would it be?”

 

“Hiroko has a son?” Viktor says as he leans against the mirror in the back of the elevator, quickly checking to make sure his head is still neatly slicked back.

 

“I’m surprised you know who Hiroko  _ is _ , Akhmatova.” Georgi crosses his arms over his chest, “Considering you forgot the name of our president. Twice.”

 

“ _ Everyone _ knows Hiroko Katsuki!” Yuri says, a bit fervently, eyes shining with something that Viktor would like to call youthful admiration but decides against actually saying the words since he values his hair where it is, “She prevented World War III by dismantling spy rings in the Pentagon, Parliament and in the National bank of China.  _ Simultaneously. _ ” Georgi hums, his voice only holding a small bit of humour as he continues the younger mans tirade,

 

“I heard she razed an entire human trafficking operation to the ground on her own, after the Salarymen had given up on the entire thing. Blew up an island in the process and didn’t hurt a single victim in the process.” Yuri nods and looks at the shifting numbers over the elevator doors in something close to nervous anticipation. Viktor smiles down at Yuri and lowers his voice into a theatrical whisper, one finger resting on his lip,

 

“Ah, but I heard that she prevented the end of the world by redirecting a satellite using her bare hands, right after she prevented the assassination of at least three head of states.” The elevator makes a soft sound as it reaches their destination, and Viktor shakes his head with a smile as he walks down the corridor, “A son, hm?”

 

“They say he’s the best.” Yuri says, and while it’s easy to forget sometimes, since he’s a genius, talented and endlessly brash, right now, he truly looks fourteen years old, “They say he’s the one that stopped the Dauntless last year.”

 

“Dauntless, huh?” Georgi sends a look to Viktor who gives a small smile back, careful to hide it from Yuri, “Never heard of them.”

 

“Exactly.” Yuri says, looking at the door to their conference room with shining eyes, “ _ Exactly. _ ”

 

“Then let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?” Viktors says, smiling.

 

He opens the door without knocking and there is a man inside, broad shoulders casting a long shadow on the marble floor. He turns, revealing a heavy set jaw and thick brows. He seems built a bit in the same manner as a wall. He is an impressive sight, to be sure, standing taller than Viktor and broader than Georgi. His black suit strains over his barrelchest.

 

“Takehigo, I assume.” Viktor says, tilting his head slightly. “A pleasure.”

 

There is a moment of silence before the man breaks out into heavy laughter.

  
“Hear that, Yuuri.” the man says, turning to look at a man who is, kind of, melting into the wall at the far side of the room, “They think I’m you.”

 

Yuuri Katsuki, son of legendary super spy Hiroko Katsuki (legend says she nursed a sick prince back to health during a snowstorm once, gently easing fever and broken bones, some say that the heir to the throne doesn’t look quite like his alleged mother, smile a bit too broad, cheeks a bit too soft), looks like -

 

“The valet.” Viktor rubs a hand over his face, a soft feeling of dread settling in his stomach.  _ Fuck. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak very good English. It's like, my fourth (fifth?) language and I never studied it properly except in recent years, and so I am constantly embarassed about my rather poor use of it. I hope that the mistakes are few enough, or dismissable enough, so that the story is enjoyable anyway!
> 
> The Acmeists, the name I gave the super secret service of Russia, was a group of modernist russian poets during the early 1900s. Some of them were good, others were worse, most of them were beset by tragedy. It seemed fitting.
> 
> I love movies like Kingsman or Shoot 'em up or Spy, and I really wanted to write something with the Yuri on Ice characters. When I disclosed this information to my cousin, who is russian, he said that the 'uniform' of the Acmeists would definitely be track suits (the fancy kind). I am already too invested in the idea of dressing Viktor up in a variety of fancy suits to change it, I just want everyone to know that in my heart, Viktor, Yuri and Georgi are definitely wearing the fancy kind of track suits, complete with mesh shirts, gold links and flip flops no matter the weather.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**The Grand Hotel of St Petersburg, St Petersburg. Russia. 13th of December, 20XX**

 

After the third time little Yuri insults the man who should be a legend but looks everything but, Viktor delegates him to hold guard outside the door. Yuri, who is talented in many ways but social situations not being one of those, bristles underneath the clear busy-body work.

 

“Make  _ him _ hold guard outside the door instead!” Yuri says with a sneer distorting his face in a way that makes Viktor as impressed as slightly exasperated, “He certainly seems more suited to it, at least.” Georgi makes a sound in the back of his throat that is one part shock, one part disapproval and one small part agreement.

 

Viktor, who has already shamed their guests enough by apparently believing one of them to be a valet and then consequently laughed when Nishigori had introduced the fidgeting man in the corner as Yuuri Katsuki, sends the two of them sharp looks. Though he would be lying if he didn’t admit to agreeing with them, just a little bit.

 

Yuuri Katsuki, son of the woman who carried three small children through a blazing desert with one arm torn out of its socket, doesn’t really look the part. The man is of average height, average weight, average everything, which isn’t that surprising considering he is part of the Salarymen. The japanese had always preferred their spies to melt into the background as seamlessly as possible, but they also preferred their spies quietly confident and slightly modified, neither of which descriptor seems to fit Katsuki at all.

 

The man in question hunches his shoulders, as if though believing that the less physical space he takes up, the less noticeable he is. He doesn’t look them in the eye, preferring instead to skittishly flick his gaze between their shoulders or the wall behind them. He seems, however, to prefer to look at his own hands, which are mostly preoccupied gripping the cheap fabric of his ill-fitting suit. Nishigori, the man who looks like he could stop a rocket in its track, is a sharp contrast. Between the obvious strength and the quiet confidence he meets the Russians gazes with, Viktor wonders if there has been some kind of mistake.

 

Is it an elaborate ruse, perhaps? A way for Nishigori to pull the wool over their eyes, to have a story to take home about easily tricked russians and how they  _ seriously _ believed that the skittish and nervous man, probably picked up randomly from the streets, was  _ the _ Yuuri Katsuki.

 

The theory has some weight, but then Yuuri makes a small movement with a shaking hand, pointing towards the projector and the laptop sitting on the table, to which Nishigori responds with such natural and practiced ease that Viktor discards that theory it’s even properly formed. Nishigori has a slightly metallic tint to his eyes and a bit too much rotation in his wrists to not be at least moderately technologically enhanced. A senior agent, probably, and most certainly a named one.

 

A man like that wouldn’t follow the orders of just anyone.

 

“I’m not leaving.” Yuri squares his shoulders, folding his arms over his chest and gives a glare so obviously practiced beforehand that Viktor is almost delighted, “I’m not leaving while  _ he _ stays.” Little Yuri is known for finding challenges and competitions in the most random things, and it seems like he has found a suitable challenge in being dubbed the only Yuri in the room. Yuri manages to catch Katsuki’s flickering gaze and sharp green eyes narrow as they meet startled and slightly dull brown ones.

 

Katsuki, who runs a twitching hand underneath his nose, is the first one to let his gaze break away. Yuri gives a not at all subtle smirk, triumphant, and mutters an insult in russian that makes Georgi splutter.

 

“Out.  _ Now _ .” Viktor says, allowing his smile to die away from his face, pointing towards the door with his whole hand. Yuri, seemingly content in his display of childish dominance, flips him off and slams the door shut with enough force to make one of the modest and inoffensive paintings that seems to hang in every hotel become crooked. Viktor rubs his temples, as he feels a headache coming on. Georgi is studying aforementioned painting with a bit too much interest to not be faked. Katsuki seems to shrink into his chair even more, only a couple of feet away from being underneath the actual table, while Nishigori looks rather amused at the entire situation. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Viktor says, after a moment, sending a smile that he knows is equal parts charming as it is lovely, “Where were we?”

 

“We were going to say what we knew.” Yuuri says, quietly, ears tinted pink and eyes firmly fixed at the table in front of him. “Nishigori, if you please.” The other man nods and taps something on the computer, making the projector hum into life. Suddenly, Yuuri makes a small movement as if though remembering something, patting at his pockets.

 

“Ah, before I forget.” Viktor’s car keys are pushed towards him, Viktor grimaces and looks at Katsuki, who looks small, quiet and serious. There is a flicker of  _ something _ on Katsuki’s lips when he speaks again. “Do be more careful, next time.” His eyes are not visible behind the glare of his glasses, and Viktor forces the smile to stay, firmly, in place.

  
  


**Undisclosed apartment complex, Yekaterinburg. Russia. 15th of December, 20XX**

 

“I’m not entirely sure how I feel about the fact that a japanese spy apparently had a safe house in Yekaterinburg.” Viktor says with something like a grin on his lips, looking at the man walking next to him, “She was aware that this place has 6 months of winter, yes?” And an absolutely  _ dreadful _ nightlife, if you were about that kind of thing. Which Viktor, definitely, was, “I can’t believe you dragged me out here, mr Katsuki.”

 

“It is also your administrative capital, which was probably the reason why Hanako choose this location.” Katsuki answers with absolutely no humour at all, skillfully dodging a man walking by them, who by all accounts did not even seem to notice the man he almost barrelled into, “She visited her apartment here four days before she turned up in Moscow.”

 

“I  _ know _ .” Viktor says, charmingly and with a bit of a bite to it, “I did listen to your briefing.” Katsuki hunches his shoulders further, rubbing a hand over his neck, making Viktor feel like he just kicked a puppy,

 

“Yes, it just -“ he shrinks and Viktor grits his teeth against the apology that seems to be almost reflexive in response to large brown eyes and slightly drawn eyebrows, “- I was just making sure.” He finishes quietly, and Viktor tries to figure out if Katsuki just made a slight dig at Viktor for not knowing who he was at the hotel, or if it was a genuine reminder. 

 

Viktor, a bit irritably, flicks the end of his emerald green scarf over his shoulder and digs his hands into his pockets. It’s december, and it’s Yekaterinburg, so it’s predictably cold enough to freeze your feet to the ground if you stand still for too long. Viktor, being Viktor, wears a royal blue fur and lovingly handcrafted and fur lined leather gloves, topping the entire thing off with a cashmere scarf so soft it was almost insulting. Katsuki, being who he apparently is, is barely visible underneath a heavy puffer coat that goes down to his knees, a scarf in an indeterminate brown/beige color and a beanie pulled down over his ears. Viktor had almost bit his tongue in order to not give a disbelieving laugh when the man, honest to God, had taken out a pair of unevenly knitted mittens to put on.

 

They arrive in front of the apartment complex, which looks as equally impressive and depressing as almost every apartment building not located in the richer parts of a Russian city does. The streetlights, flickering to life in the soon-dusk, reflects of the surface of Katsuki’s glasses. It’s not a skyscraper, not quite, but it’s a tall and vaguely imposing building, built to look like one of the old statues that used to litter the city, before it became home to more capitalistic minded siberians that preferred to not remember the cities checkered past. The cold bites at his cheeks, but he’s russian and built for this kind of weather, so instead he turns to Yuuri and asks in a surprisingly serious manner;

 

“Which one is hers?” 

 

“Oh, uh -” Yuuri says, pointing at a window which is ten floors up and right at the corner. Viktor nods, solemnly, and shrugs off his coat. He hands it to Yuuri with a bit of flair, because he is who he is, and if he wasn’t a spy, he would’ve been an actor, or a dancer, or anything where the world was at once both his audience and his stage. Right now, he’ll have to make do with the quiet, nervous Katsuki, but any audience was better than none.

 

“Uhm.” Katsuki says something underneath a softly exhaled breath as Viktor starts to climb.

 

Viktor, who has been accused of having selective hearing on more than one occasion and by most of his instructors, doesn’t listen and instead keeps at his steady ascent. His feet find purchase in the ridges of the brick building easily enough and when the ledges taper off into windows and sturdy balconies, his hands gripping tight around the window sills or the gutter.

 

Night comes quickly, this close to Siberia, and what was dusk moments ago, quickly become dark night. There is a flash of movement from inside one of the apartments, and Viktor stills, one foot on the top of a window, the other hanging loose as his knuckles grow white around the low bar of the balcony above. A moment of silence. After a few minutes, and no further movement from inside the apartment, he continues to climb.

 

When he reaches the window, he notices the darkness of it. He measures where he will strike to break the window, to make the noise as low as possible. He pulls his arm back, makes sure to use the hand to where he wears his ring, and then -

 

The window opens. Katsuki leans out, extending a hand which Viktor, after a moment of blinking and opening, and shutting, his mouth, takes. Katsuki pulls him inside, where Viktor’s ridiculous coat hangs over one of the chairs, with Katsuki’s ridiculous mittens stuffed into one of its pockets. Viktor takes a couple of deep breaths and waits for his pulse to slow. He blinks at Katsuki, who waddles more than he walks, pottering about the apartment in his ridiculous jacket.

 

“How -” Viktor stops, thinks for a moment, “ _ What - _ ”

 

“I took the stairs.” Katsuki answers quietly. “The street door wasn’t locked.”

 

_ The stairs _ . Viktor thinks, as if though suddenly realising that buildings such as these usually have those.  _ Where’s the story in that, though? _ He would sulk, if he wasn’t quite so aware of the fact that he didn’t wear sulking very well, so he settles for sending an exasperated look at Katsuki’s back before joining the other man in digging through the apartment for information.

 

It looks like a hotel room. The walls are the kind of colour that could be white, grey, beige or anything inbetween. There is almost no art on the wall and the bookcases are full of books with uncracked spines, and nothing to betray the owners literary taste. Viktor traces a finger over the dust that's gathered on the left bedside table, showing that whoever slept here did so in the right side, and probably never brought someone home. The apartment says nothing about the woman who lived here, except that she was alone.

 

“It’s funny,” Viktor says, feeling just a slightly bit disconnected from the entire situation, the sweat from his climb drying on his back, “How all these apartment look the same.” He says it softly, more to himself than to anyone else.

 

“Yes. It is.” Katsuki’s quiet voice answers and when Viktor turns to him, the other man meets his gaze, and they share something a little bit like understanding. Viktor doesn’t know if the soft unfurling of  _ something _ in his chest is the after-sweats of his climbing or something else. He carefully, and quite firmly, doesn’t look deeper at it.

 

They go through the apartment in a silence that is just a little bit more comfortable than it was before. He sees Yuuri go through the bathroom with an almost envious amount of concentration and meticulousness, carefully removing the tools the agent would have had to use in order to keep her upgrades in working order.

 

Viktor is feeling his way over the baseboard in the kitchen when there is just the slightest raise from one inch to the next. He stops, presses his fingers against the baseboard and feels it give, ever so slightly. He removes his hands, takes the Acmeist standard floral scarf (black edition) and ties it around his nose and mouth. He looks back at Yuuri, who nods and takes up his own face mask, which to the world looks like nothing more than the ones you buy in packs of a hundred at the corner store.

 

At another press of his fingers, the baseboard gives way and slides to the side. There is a puff of poison released into the air, and Viktor waits for it to pass through his shawl before continuing.

 

It is a small, almost empty, hidden space. There are two things inside, a photo of the dead agent and another woman, their hands clasped, the agents lips pulled into a soft smile. He passes the photograph to Yuuri, whose eyebrows pull tight over his large, brown eyes at the sight of it. It is a surprisingly unguarded moment, quickly forgotten when Viktor pulls out the second item. A coin, small and silver and pressed with an image of an stylized eye on one side and a crown on the other.

 

“Tsarists?” Viktor says, his voice muffled by the shawl, “ _ What? _ ”

 

Tsarists are the kind of conspiracy theorists that you unwillingly keep a tab on when you’re a secret agency somewhat concerned with the safety of your nation. They are almost never worth the trouble and it’s always  _ mind numbingly _ boring to keep them under surveillance and the job of doing so is usually delegated by Yakov or Lilia as a punishment when someone has overstepped their budget or been a bit too visible on one of their missions. The Tsarists were convinced that the Tsar of Russia was due to rise again, and whenever he failed to turn up on their designated and predicted date, they always came up with a reason to why they had predicted wrong and that it was actually supposed to happen a year, or two, from the date they had originally predicted.

 

They were idiots, if you wanted to be crude about it, and had never warranted anything but slightly distracted viewing of their wildly unpopular youtube-channel. That is until now, when their ridiculous membership coin was found in a Salaryman’s safehouse. 

 

“Akhmatova?” Katsuki says, voice gentle, “What is -”

 

“Apparently, this Hanako of yours wants the Romanovs back in St. Petersburg.” He flicks the coin at the other man, who catches it easily, turning it over in his hands with a curious gaze, “And I have no idea why.”

  
  


**Lonely Planet, Ancient and outdated Internet Café, Yekaterinburg. Russia. 15th of December, 20XX**

 

Yuri is slightly out of focus on the old computer screen, where the coloring of his purple leopard shirt and blond hair makes him look a lot like something from a music video from the turn of the century. Viktor is sitting in a chair that is just slightly too small for him, while Katsuki is quietly looking over his shoulder, keeping one eye on the screen and the other on the sleepy clerk on the other side of the room.

 

“The  _ Tsarists? _ ” Yuri says, voice shrill as it trembles through the speakers that probably hadn’t been changed since the fall of the Union, “You must be getting soft in the head, old man.” Viktor mutters under his breath as he places the coin against the USB-scanner he plugged in. It scans and little Yuri squints as the image appears. In a moment Yuri’s brow are twisted over his eyes in anger, his mouth twisting into a heavy scowl.

 

“Told you so.” Viktor says, carefully emulating the frustrating quiet and evenness of Katsuki’s tone, and he hears the other man shift behind him, “Just do a damn scan, Yuri.”

 

“It’s authentic.” Yuri says after a moment of silence. He is squinting at his own computer screen, making the image blur even more on the approximately ten year old monitor Viktor is currently dealing with, “No fingerprints. Slight traces of oil, but I need the actual coin in order to make a better guess at what kind it is.” He mutters under his breath, “How the fuck did the Tsarists get a hold of an agent?” 

 

Yuri crosses his arms over his chest, as if though personally affronted by the fact that an organization like the Tsarists, whose latest youtube video had been a twenty minute long ramble about organically grown skin-suits and their apparent role in replacing the different leaders of the world with sentient apes, had managed to slip something like this through their grasp. If Viktor is completely honest, he agrees with the sentiment. When Katsuki suddenly speaks, it is almost enough to make the two of them jump.

 

“Ah, I apologize for the intrusion -” the man starts, bashfully looking down at his own shoes, “- but perhaps this would help.” He carefully unfolds the photograph they obtained from the apartment, one finger tapping against the woman who had  _ not _ tried to strangle Viktor to death a couple of days ago, “- but if you could identify this woman, perhaps it would help?” The last words tapers out into silence and a soft waver, as if though the words he just spoke took more energy than he actually had, and he quickly places the photograph on the scanner and then moves to study the floor in quiet and meticulous detail.

 

Yuri looks  _ livid _ , as if though the supposed legendary agent’s timidness is a personal insult to Yuri’s personal beliefs.

 

“ _ Pig. _ ” He spits, lips pulling back over his teeth, “Don’t fucking tell me what to -”

 

“ _ Enough _ .” Viktor snarls, in Russian, making Yuri glare at him instead, “Just don’t, Yuri. If only because Yakov will put you on computer-duty for another week if you keep insulting our guest.”

 

Yuri quiets for a moment, and then speaks in a carefully controlled voice, only vibrating with anger ever so softly on the vowels,

 

“ _ Fine _ . I’ll identify the woman.”

 

“Thank you -” Katsuki starts, but it is cut short by Yuri’s snarl,

 

“Don’t even fucking start. I hate you, you fucking  _ idiot. _ ”

 

Katsuki blinks at the screen, before he softly says “Okay.” In a tone of voice that is barely louder than a hummingbird.

 

Yuri ends the call. 

 

It only takes a minute of awkward silence before there is a spark, the screen flickering, before it ends on a blue screen with a shrill beeping coming from the speakers. Viktor pockets the scanner and nods to Katsuki, who quietly slips through the door into the cold streets. The clerk is soundly asleep, and Viktor takes out five hundred dollar bills from his wallet and stuffs them into the tip jar before joining Katsuki outside.

 

**The Not So Secret Hideout of the Tsarists, St Petersburg. Russia. 19th of December, 20XX**

 

“I can’t believe they set up shop in the Alexander palace.” Mila rolls her eyes as she lazily flicks out the butt of her cigarette from the window of their car, “It’s like they just decided to be as kliché as possible.” She lights another cigarette almost immediately, and Viktor only sends a passing thought to his  _ lovely _ green velvet coat that he would have to dry clean in the morning, “I thought we were restoring this place to its ‘former glory’.”

 

“Could be that the government is in on it.” Viktor says, hoping that he sounds as disinterested as he is, “Could also be that they’re bribing someone.” He rolls his shoulders, glaring at the dim lights lighting up the impressively decrepit building that used to house the last Tsar of Russia. “Or this entire thing is just a ruse, and we’ll soon find out all of this is just a big mistake.”

 

Mila rolls her eyes and flicks her red hair over her shoulder, her carefully applied dark lipstick staining the end of her cigarette, “No need to be so melodramatic, Akhmatova.”

 

Viktor grimaces at her and Mila gives a low chuckle, leaning her head back against the leather seat. They both look toward the palace, toward the east side which is more decrepit than the rest, and knows that Nishigori lays hidden behind a pile of stripped marble and dust, tracking Katsuki’s movements with his rifle and heat monitor as Katsuki slips through the building, looking for anything to connect the group to the dead Salaryman.

 

They sit in silence, waiting for the small radios in their ear to spark into life if they’re needed. Mila lights another cigarette and only winks at Viktor when he sends her a look.

 

“So, how is he?” she asks, between one drag of her cigarette and the next. She wears the Mandelstam name well, with her low voice and clever smiles, and Viktor shakes his head when she continues, “Takehigo, the  _ legend _ .” She says the last with a bit of a huff, and breaks into a chuckle when Viktor glares at her, “Oh, don’t give me that look. Yuri hasn’t been able to shut up about it. Apparently, mr Katsuki is  _ quite _ the disappointment.”

 

Viktor rubs a hand over his ear, over the radio that is hidden inside. He would shrug, if it weren’t such an ungentlemanly thing to do. Instead he sighs and looks out the car window, staring at the dark palace as if though he could see Katsuki’s progress through the walls. “He is what he is.” Viktor answers, which makes Mila laugh again.

 

“How diplomatically put.” There is another wave of silence as Mila taps her fingers against her leather clad legs. Viktor was, rather pointedly, not looking at her, but he feels her eyes on him all the same. “I remember the first time I met you.” The smoke hangs heavy in the air, trickling out through painted lips and between her fingers, “I was eighteen.” Viktor doesn’t remember, but when she says it, he imagines that he remembers young Mila, bright eyed and brown hair not yet coloured red, one of the more promising candidates picked out to replace Mandelstam after the former had decided to stop a missile with a bad plan and his own face.

 

“I had heard so many stories about you that I wasn’t even sure if you were real, because how could a mere  _ man _ , no matter how talented, be everything they told me you were.” Viktor had been the youngest named agent in Acmeist history at sixteen years old, long-haired and bright-eyed, rough around the edges and larger than life. He knew the stories, well enough. Most of them were true, if exaggerated, and some of them were the same stories he had heard about Yakov, once upon a time, when he had slept in the barracks with the other Akhmatova candidates.

 

Viktor looks at his gloved hands and doesn’t answer. Mila sighs, placing one high-heeled boot up against the dashboard, letting the cigarette glow between her fingers without taking a drag. “You were a disappointment too, at first.”

 

“Thank you ever so much, Mandelstam.” Viktor says, dryly, but he gives a smile when Mila elbows his side with a small grin.

 

“You’re welcome.” Mila winks, settling back into her seat. This time, when she flicks the butt of her cigarette outside the window, she doesn’t light a new one. The following silence is broken, after a couple of moments, by a spark in their ears.

 

“Incoming.” Nishigori’s low voice is heard, and Mila picks up her sniper rifle in one fluid motion, positions it against the open window, finger resting along the trigger. Her voice is low and carefully smooth when she answers, 

 

“Understood.”

 

Viktor takes up jodridiculously high-tech spyglass, fingers tapping along the side of it as the front view of the gate comes into view, tinted green. He measures the distance between their car and the vague, slowly approaching shapes of three people exiting the building and coming towards them.

 

“Agent sighted.” Viktor confirms as Katsuki comes into view, stumbling slightly in front of a mean looking woman who has her hand on the back of his neck and seems to be speaking angrily, partially to Katsuki and partially to the equally meaty looking man walking beside her. They stop, just in front of the gate, and Viktor watches Katsuki’s hunched back and drawn shoulders, watches the way his hands tremble as he says something to his captors. The two people look at each other, before looking back, and then the woman slams Katsuki against the gate, hand still around his neck.

 

Viktor’s hands tighten around the spyglass, but he still keeps tabs on the distance and the movement of the trees around the palace to determine which wind is blowing. Mila will have to take two shots, and it’s his job to make sure the transition between the two goes as smoothly as possible.

 

“Line of sight acquired.” Mila says beside him, “Ready at command, Takehi.”

 

Katsuki has gone from being slammed face first into the broken down but ornate gate to being lifted onto his toes, facing the woman, her hand around his neck in a grip that makes his leg shake.

 

Nishigori is silent in their ear and when Katsuki is backhanded across the mouth by the same woman, making him topple over, falling into the mud in front of the gate. A heavy boot connects to his stomach, before the man buries his hand into Katsuki’s black hair and lifts his head up, hissing something as the woman cocks a gun to place it against Katsuki’s temple.

 

“ _ Takehi. _ ” Viktor repeats, a bite in his voice, and the response comes quickly enough.

 

“I heard you. Withhold.”

 

“He’s good at taking a beating, at least.” Mila says, with absolutely no humour, as Katsuki cowers in front of the two Tsarists, hand still twisted in his hair and a gun at his temple. Katsuki says something, probably something akin to begging, because it makes the two brutes break into laughter.

 

It also makes the woman remove the gun from its position at his temple. The man shakes his head, slamming Katsuki into the gate again, and the impact is enough to make the gate rattle open. The two brutes start to walk away and Katsuki stays cowering in the mud until the woman turns around and shouts something, making Katsuki spring into action, clamouring to get out of the mud and then half-running, half-limping away from the palace. Viktor watches as Katsuki touches a finger to his ear, and then his hoarse, broken voice flitters through their ears.

 

“Mission compromised. Retreat.”

 

Viktor lowers the spyglass with a bitten off curse in russian and Mila puts the safety back on her rifle, removing it from the window and placing it beside her in the car. She makes a thoughtful grimace, gaze following Katsuki’s retreating figure.

 

“Well, that was a fucking downer.”

  
  


**The Headquarters of the Acmeists, St. Petersburg, Russia. 20th of december, 20XX.**

 

“They were gearing up for something.” Katsuki’s voice is as quiet as usual, the slight hoarseness from being strangled still present in his soft voice, “If they were bumbling idiots before, something made them get serious.” Nishigori, almost a head taller than his superior, nods seriously beside him.

 

“They were at least forty men strong.”

 

“There was a basement, it is possible most of the activity was underground.” There is a stiffening of Katsuki’s shoulders, a short and almost unnoticeable movement, “I was captured before I could investigate.”

 

“And beaten like a dog.” Yuri mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from Yakov and a slight snort from Mila.

 

Lilia nods from her seat, the lights behind her casting the bruises on Katsuki’s face in stark contrast to his pale skin. He is back to wearing his ill-fitting suit, with his absolutely horrid blue tie tied loosely around his neck.

 

“I am disappointed in the lack of documents, or any kind of tangible proof of a plot.” She says, never one to coat hear words in anything softer than barbs, “But I realize that every mission can not be a success.” She shakes her head, “It seems as if though we must go to the swiss for help.”

 

The swiss, like the scandinavians and the canadians, had information dealers and diplomats instead of agents. They preferred words and carefully brokered over action, and rarely involved themselves in bloodshed. The swiss, which were the preferred ally of the Acmeists, had decidedly less scruples than the other two. And, besides, Giacometti throws the  _ best _ parties.

 

“Takehigo, Akhmatova.” Lilia snaps, Viktor and Katsuki stiffening instinctively, “I will send the two of you.” She looks over her half-moon glasses, eyes sharp and dangerous, “I trust that I will not be disappointed again.”

 

“You will not.” Nishigori answers, Katsuki stiff and silent beside him.

 

“Don’t worry, Gumilev.” Viktor responds, a bit glibly, smoothing his nails over his expensive suit jacket, “I’m sure we’ll do better the second time.” He winks, with all the garishness that his preferred persona demands, and Lilia looks wildly unimpressed and just slightly amused at the same time.

 

“Good. Dismissed.” Lilia waves a hand towards the door, her other jotting down her signature to clear their report for filing, “Mandelstam, Gorodetsky, you two stay. I have a mission.” Mila gives a nod and Yakov sends Yuri a bit of a warning glare as the rest of them leave. They are barely in the corridor when Yuri, wearing what seems to be a combination of the russian flag and a shitton of fake fur, rounds on Katsuki, green eyes flashing.

 

“You should leave.” His voice is more a growl than it is anything else, and Viktor sees Katsuki tilt his head backwards in a bit of surprise, “You are a fucking disgrace.” Viktor moves to stop Yuri with a sigh, but Katsuki holds up a hand in his direction, and the authority of it makes Viktor blink and stop in his tracks.

 

“Beaten like a dog, strangled like a coward.” He leans forward, crowding into Katsuki’s space, making the man lean backwards, “They  _ spat _ at you.” Yuri bares his teeth, and by now people around them are starting to stop to watch the spectacle unfold, there is a slight hiss from an unnamed agent as Yuri continues, “And you run away? Retreating, with your tail between your legs?”

 

Katsuki is silent, brown eyes dim and swimming with something indeterminate behind his glasses. Yuri laughs, and it’s a low, cruel kind of laughter.

 

“Hiroko Katsuki must’ve been a great fucking woman, since she was apparently so legendary, they were willing to name her worthless son before an  _ actual _ agent.”

 

“Oi. Kid.” Nishigori says, an easy smile on his face, a slight sharpness in his tone as he speaks, “Calm down, yeah?”

 

“Bet I could have you grovelling on the ground in five minutes. If you were up to the challenge.” Yuri leans back, folds his arms over his chest. The words hang heavy in the room and it feels like everyone is holding their breath. The silence stretches between them, until Yuri snorts, runs a hand through his blond hair, giving a mocking smirk in the face of Katsuki’s silence, “That’s what I th -”

 

“Okay.” Katsuki’s voice cuts through, which is rather remarkable, considering it’s said underneath the soft exhale of a breath. His hands are still, resting along his sides.

 

Yuri’s answering grin is positively murderous. He squares his shoulders, meeting Katsuki’s gaze with his own. The man’s brown eyes does not waver.

 

“Yakov’s going to kill me.” Viktor says, suddenly, in quiet realization.

 

“Probably.” An unnamed agent, pale and sympathetic looking, agrees.

 

**About thirty minutes later, In the Training Room of the Acmeist Headquarters, St. Petersburg, Russia. 20th of december, 20XX.**

 

Katsuki removes and folds his jacket and tie with a carefulness neither item really deserves. The white dress shirt, just on this side of Too Thin and Too Baggy, shows the outlines of the white tank top he wears underneath. He looks smaller, without the jacket, and even less impressive. Nishigori is talking to him in japanese, and Viktor is close enough to catch bits and pieces of what is said. He has never been fluent, but he picks up languages with an ease that makes Georgi twitch with jealousy, but he knows enough to pick up the gist of the conversation.

 

They’re talking about the weather. Nishigori is remarking upon the snow and Katsuki hums in agreement to the statement that the russian winter is quite different from the one they're used to. It’s nothing important. It’s a quiet, gentle conversation about the russian winter, while Yuri is glowering on the other side of the room, surrounded by his quietly excited age-mates.

 

Viktor has been delegated the job of being the judge, which is a duty he takes on with a slightly bemused expression and a slight twitch in the skin underneath his right eye.

 

“Go easy on him, yeah?” Nishigori says, leaning back against the wall as Katsuki toes off his shoes and removes his socks, “He’s just a kid.”

 

“Yeah.” Katsuki answers, removing his glasses, placing them on top of his shoes.

 

“You ready, pig?” Yuri is already at the middle of the floor, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. Katsuki pads, footsteps barely audible against the mat covering the plastic floor. He stops, two meters away from Yuri, and does a respectful bow towards his opponent.

 

Yuri’s response is a rude gesture that makes Viktor rub a hand over his eyes.

 

“No tally. First to draw blood or equivalent wins.” Viktor sighs, straightening his back as he looks upon the two people on the mat, “Don’t be idiots.” He waits until both of them moves into position, feet wide apart, arms raised, and then - 

 

“Begin.”

 

Yuri moves immediately. Striking out with his fist towards the older man’s face, who moves away from it with an almost viper-like speed. Yuri follows the movement with another punch, following it with a jab from his other fist. Katsuki dodges both without barely moving his feet, before blocking the kick that Yuri tries to push into his stomach. Yuri strikes out with a flurry of hits, three quick jabs in succession, followed by two kicks leveled at Katsuki’s knees. Katsuki, looking like a japanese businessman who got just a bit too much to drink at the karaoke bar, bows underneath them, sidestepping the first kick and blocking the last with his forearm. He doesn’t even seem fazed, moving out of the way of Yuri’s strikes and kicks as if though the teenager is shouting them out as he tries to throw them.

 

It’s not even really a contest, Viktor realises, thirty seconds into the fight. Yuri is a wonderchild, a naturally talented athlete that Yakov picked up and honed into a teenager that would probably be the next named agent, even if he weren’t old enough to buy alcohol in most parts of the world. Yuri’s raw talent is visible in the ferocity of his strikes, in the almost untamed energy of his movements.

 

Katsuki, who twists slightly, bowing backwards to let Yuri’s kick fly over him without hitting, is the opposite. There is not an ounce of wasted energy in the man’s controlled movements. While Yuri is hitting hard, and wide, Katsuki side steps or bends beneath each one with the least movement possible. He moves with a speed that should be impossible, able to block each and every hit that he can’t, or won’t, dodge.

 

Viktor swallows tightly as Katsuki slaps away another one of Yuri’s uppercuts and suddenly, quick as a viper, steps into Yuri’s space, coming close so quickly that the teenager has little choice but to stumble backwards, tripping over his own feet.

 

Yuri, whose breath is starting to come in short pants, widens his stance once more, bringing up his arms to bend them into starting position. Katsuki, shoulders low and back straight, waits patiently. Yuri aims his kicks lower, this time, just as he stops trying to outright punch Katsuki in the face, smart enough to realise that he won’t  _ win _ if he doesn’t start to think a bit more strategically. He starts focusing on quickly thrown uppercuts and defensive hooks aimed against Katsuki’s ribs and stomach. Yuri is good, and quick, but Katsuki...

 

Yuri doesn’t manage to actually hit him, his strikes only hitting air or the steady muscle of Yuri’s forearms or the deflective surface of his palms. Yuri makes a mistake, aiming a side kick too high. Katsuki, whose forehead is just barely shining with sweat, catches the teenagers foot with ease, and then pushes it away, making Yuri stumble and fall onto the floor.

 

“Fuck you.” Yuri grits out between his teeth, catching his breath and getting back onto his feet with a twist of his legs. Katsuki has stilled, again, waiting. Yuri’s movements are slower, this time, and his face grows darker each time Katsuki dodges one of his blows. There is a soft intake of breath from everyone in the room as Yuri goes in for the same sequence of hits and kicks that he just threw, but then Yuri breaks from his fourth uppercut to go for a low sweeping kick instead, a feint that works just well enough to make Katsuki’s feet leave the ground for the first time since the match started.

 

Katsuki flips backward, one hand touching the floor before he lands on his feet, rolling into standing position with a grace that are usually found in dancers more than it’s found in fighters. Katsuki gives a small smile, just a slight twitch of his lips, as he looks at Yuri, “Well done.” He praises, voice low and soft. Yuri blinks at that, and barely has time to move as Katsuki starts to strike  _ back _ for the first time. Yuri barely dodges the first, lightning-fast jab, and he stumbles when he tries to sidestep the second one.

 

The third punch stops just an inch from Yuri’s face, right before it was going to make an impact. Yuri’s green eyes are wide as Katsuki steps back, pressing a hand against the teenagers chest before pushing lightly.

 

Yuri hits the floor with a rather undignified  _ oof _ , and Katsuki, quiet and unassuming, steps back.

 

There is silence, for a moment.

 

“Takehigo wins.” Viktor says, voice a bit tight and breath just slightly stolen from his lungs. There is a sudden outburst of applause from the people watching, which doesn’t pause as Katsuki offers his hand to Yuri, who pushes it out of the way with more force than is necessary.

 

“Next time, I’ll wipe the fucking floor with you.” He spits, face red and eyes wild, “So don’t get fucking comfortable.” He shoulders his way past Katsuki, who looks... amused, mostly, and almost a little bit fond.

 

Nishigori, eyes glinting as the lights of the room catches on the metal built into his iris, steps forward, holding out Katsuki’s jacket for the man to shrug into.

 

“Nice kid.” He says, to Viktor, who doesn’t necessarily nod in agreement but more like a kind of response. “Reminds me of you, when you were little.” Nishigori continues, this time in japanese, to Katsuki, who steps into his shoes.

 

Katsuki smiles, eyes hidden once again behind thick glasses and black bangs, “Right?” he says, fond and warm and soft, not at all looking like the man who just moved across the room with the kind of grace that only a man who had fought his way through a thousand deaths could, and Viktor’s heart, in an uncomfortable and slightly pinched feeling, swells just slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I was so overwhelmed by the response to the first chapter that I spent the entire week randomly breaking into smiles, so I want to thank everyone who left a comment or kudos, or really just read, the first chapter! I worked on this as quickly as I could, but I still didn't manage to get it out quite as fast as I wanted to.
> 
> Apparently, Hanako is the japanese equivalence of Jane Doe, and while it wasn't the name of the traitor agent when she was alive, that's what it became once she died.
> 
> Nishigori's last comment is my happy response to an interview with Yuuri's voice actor, where he mentioned that he imagined Yuuri to be so kind to little Yuri because he used to be the same way. And I love the idea of quiet, shy Yuuri taking out the frustration of his anxiety in a very angry and visceral kind of way.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have seriously wept over how much better this chapter got with the betaing help of pardonthelitany, and I am still in awe.

**An Extravagantly Luxurious Hotel, Just Outside of Zurich, Switzerland. 21st december, 20XX.**

 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Viktor mutters underneath his breath as he straightens his dark purple tie, glaring at the back of Georgi’s head as the other man unloads Viktor’s five suitcases onto the wagon prepared for them by the bellhop. Georgi’s hair is, as always, ridiculous.

 

“I’m not your babysitter, Vitya, I’m your handler,” Georgi says with a bit of a sigh, glancing at Viktor and shaking his head, “I’ve been your handler a thousand times by now, why—”

  
“I don’t need a handler to meet Perchta, I never have. Switzerland is neutral ground, we would violate fifteen treaties if we so much as think about bringing a weapon anywhere.” Viktor sniffs, flicking the silver hair out of his eyes, “Yakov just sent you here to keep an eye on me, admit it.”

 

“Of course I’m here to keep an eye on you,” Georgi answers, not even  _ trying _ to sound contrite or ashamed to be a ploy in Yakov’s nefarious plan to keep Viktor in check. “You oversaw a duel between what is probably the next named Acmeist and the golden agent of Japan, without stopping it, what did you think would happen?”

 

Had there been any pebbles on the ground, which there aren’t because the Swiss do not allow things like loose pebbles anywhere they _ shouldn’t  _ be, Viktor would have kicked one a bit forlornly and angrily. Instead, he settles for a slightly haughty look that he uses instead of pouting.

 

By the amused look Georgi sends him, he recognises it well. After Georgi has finished unloading the suitcases, he presses a high-value euro into the hand of the young bellhop and makes a command in flawless German. The bellhop, looking ridiculous and serious in the way only the employees at the most pretentious, traditional, and luxurious hotels do, gives a quick nod before starting to cart the wagon inside. Georgi looks at Viktor, who is wearing a suit that is more expensive than the decked out spy car they drove here in, and cocks his eyebrow.

 

“You think I want to be here?” Georgi gives a slightly overdramatic sigh, placing a hand against his heart in a fashion that befits the name Ivanov. “I had a date with the loveliest woman in all of Russia.” He sighs, a bit forlornly. “And instead I am here, keeping an eye on a man who insists on wearing pink suits.”

 

“Who, luckily for you, happens to be the loveliest man in all of Russia,” Viktor answers, a bit primly, dusting a hand over the shoulder of his jacket. “And its  _ amaranth _ , you heathen.” He elbows Georgi, who shakes his head with a smile and doesn’t disagree, and Viktor remembers how Georgi used to braid Viktor’s hair, tight and stiff against the crown of his head, when the former Gumilev had tried to force him into cutting it.

 

“I suppose I could have a worse babysitter,” Viktor concedes with a bit of a huff as Georgi gives him a look that is as exasperated as it is fond. “Now, handler, do your job and announce my arrival to Mr. Giacometti.”

 

This time, the look is decidedly mostly exasperated, but Georgi is a good agent and even better at taking orders, so he only shakes his head before going into the hotel. Viktor rolls his shoulders and waits for Katsuki to join him. The man in question, walking softly towards him, is wearing a nicer black suit in order to fit in a bit better with the clientele of the hotel, but Viktor grinds his teeth when he notices that it is  _ still _ slightly ill-fitting, too broad in the shoulders and too tight around his waist, and that Katsuki is still wearing that baby-blue tie made out of  _ polyester. _ (“What’s the threadcount?” Viktor had asked, two fingers barely touching the tie as he held it up against the light. “Threadcount?” Katsuki had answered, large brown eyes blinking owlishly behind his glasses).

 

“I will burn that tie,” Viktor says, instead of a proper greeting, and Katsuki shrugs, his slightly shaking hands fluttering over the tie to make sure it’s properly tied.

 

“Okay,” Katsuki answers, voice soft and almost infuriatingly agreeable. “Ivanov?”

 

“Telling Perchta we’re here.” Viktor looks at his watch, whose diamond interface glints in the sunlight. “We’re a couple of minutes shy of being fashionably late, so let’s get a move on.” Katsuki follows him through the doors of the hotel, held open for them by two inoffensively handsome employees, like a shadow at his heels.

 

Georgi greets Katsuki with a nod and then falls into step next to Viktor as they walk towards the banquet hall, winding through the impressive light-filled corridors. “They’ve been expecting us, apparently,” Georgi says underneath his breath, and the moment they pass through the part of the hotel that is for guests, and into the part of the hotel that is for people like them, the comfortably handsome employees of the hotels are replaced by slightly more ethereal, but still decidedly common looking, men and women in suits of different shades of pastel. They all smile at them as they pass, and there is something generally unsettling about them.

 

When they reach the large, carved doors leading to the ballroom, they open before Viktor can even knock.

 

Georgi gives a slightly exasperated grumble, Katsuki looks mildly impressed behind his ugly glasses, and Viktor gives a faintly amused smile. It’s so typical of this Perchta to put on a show. It is comforting, in a way, to have a reminder that this is the same Chris that he met only six months ago. Clones are notoriously unstable and you can never be quite sure that you are met by the same Perchta every time.

 

This Chris, a man who once referred to himself as ‘ _ Your Chris _ ,  _ if you would have me _ ’ to Viktor with a slightly wistful smile, is sitting by the piano in the middle of the room. The high ceilings and stained windows light the mosaiced floor in interesting patterns, making the sunlight dance through high windows. The chandelier, regal and bigger than fifteen Viktors stacked upon one another, hangs high over their head, and catches some of the natural light, amplifying it further.

 

“Akhmatova,” Chris says warmly, green eyes dancing in the light, smiling broadly enough to show off his dimples, “always a pleasure.” He is wearing green, like he always is, and his softly curled blonde hair is just barely touching the high edges of his jacket. Diamonds, cut in precise sizes and incredibly clear, are dusted over his shoulders. His hands are resting over the keys of the piano, and beside him is a child, blond and green-eyed, similar in a way that is fundamentally off-putting.

 

“Perchta. It’s been too long.” Viktor has always appreciated this Chris’ flair for the dramatics and love for fine suits and fur. The original Christophe, who died almost seventy years ago, had reportedly little left over for anything else after his experiments and the secrets he jealously kept close to his chest. Most names were titles to be inherited, but Giacometti had taken it one step further, cloning himself and making sure that there would be no other leader of the Raiffeisen. Seventy years later, the clones that had followed him had all been as brilliant but with little of the original’s paranoia and generally disagreeable nature, so the Swiss had simply accepted it.

 

“Takehigo and Ivanov,” Chris continues, after sending Viktor a heavy gaze underneath his long lashes, “Your reputations precede you.” He focuses, his eyes hooded but his gaze sharp and his smile lazy. “Especially yours, Katsuki.”

 

Katsuki, who looks as nervous standing in the banquet hall of one of the most notorious information dealers in the world as he does waiting in line for buying a bus ticket, ducks his head and wrings his hands. It is an interesting display to watch, especially since Viktor is still trying to determine how much of it is a game and an act, and how much of it isn’t.

 

“It’s just stories, Perchta,” Katsuki offers, tone wavering slightly. 

 

Chris gives a small smile, at that, and winks with heavy-handed flair. “Oh, isn’t it all?” 

 

Viktor can tell that Chris is losing interest, is taking in the nervous wringing of hands, the almost unnoticeable flinches, and the slight trembling of his voice, and dismissing the man in the same way Viktor had in the beginning. The child, who is small and serious and wearing white like most clones do before they are given their Name, follows their movements with large eyes.

 

“But enough chit-chat,” Chris starts, turning back to the piano, well-manicured hands slowly pressing down upon the keys in a rhythm that is too slow to identify the song. “I have received payment and a promise of a favour, so you will receive your information about Tsarist allies.” He makes a small movement with his head, and one of the pastel suited people comes forward to put a file in Viktor’s hand. It is thin, and Viktor feels a slight spark of annoyance, and he knows, even before he opens it, that there will be more black blocks than text.

 

“Really, Chris?” He says, a bit exasperatedly, passing the file to Georgi, who mutters something in Russian underneath his breath. Chris gives a slow shrug, continuing his playing. The child is watching them, closely, head tilted.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Chris chides. “There was little to be found in the first place, and it was not  _ my _ laws that painted so many names in black.” He sends Viktor a look. “We are neutral ground, Viktor, we have to obey the regulations put in place.” He doesn’t comment on what Viktor knows, which is that he could’ve omitted the blacked out lines of texts completely. Now, while Viktor didn’t know the names, he knew that there  _ were _ names. And that they were powerful enough, and influential enough, to make an information dealer omit their details.

 

“Apparently, there are whispers of a Romanov surfacing.” Chris says, a smirk playing on his lips, “Again.”

 

“At least it’s not Rasputin this time,” Georgi mutters underneath his breath, and Viktor sighs in agreement. Katsuki, carefully flicking through the more or less useless papers within the folder, says nothing.

 

“That might explain the oligarch.” Viktor frowns, tapping a finger against his lips, the child who sits next to Chris copies the gesture. “But what about the other killings? The businessman and the diplomat?” 

 

Chris rolls his shoulders in a smooth gesture, tilts his head and gives a smile. “No comment.”

  
“ _ Christophe. _ ” Viktor rubs a hand over his eyes and gives a weary enough sigh to make Georgi’s eyebrows knit over his forehead in concern. Viktor, as adept to ignoring concern as he is at ignoring most things, just shakes his head and looks back at the papers, still held in Katsuki’s surprisingly slender hands. “This isn’t enough, Perchta.”

 

“I know.” Chris stops playing and turns to them. “Which is why I also have this.” He reaches into his jacket, producing a hefty, cream-coloured envelope.

  
“I hope you brought your good suit,” Chris says with a wink, and Viktor can almost feel the way Katsuki shifts uncomfortably behind him as he catches up with Chris’ meaning. “Because you two are accompanying me to a ball.” There is a sly smile. “And I have a reputation to uphold.”

 

**An Elegant and Ancient Palace, Zurich, Switzerland. 22nd december, 20XX.**

 

“I can’t believe you rented a suit.” Viktor has carefully draped himself across the backseat of the limo, one hand resting against his forehead. He looks like painted dawn, he knows, in light blue and soft orange, hair carefully styled to sweep away from his face. He sighs, bone deep and tired, “I can’t believe you rented a suit and  _ not _ another tie.”

 

Katsuki, looking decidedly more presentable in a suit that wasn’t specifically made to highlight his worst features, seems a lot calmer and more collected than Viktor thought he would. The twitch of Katsuki’s lip might even be called a smile, if you were generously inclined.

 

“I don’t like going over budget,” Katsuki says with a raised eyebrow, pushing his glasses further up his nose. Viktor finds himself wondering if the slightly too large glasses are as much of a conscious choice as the ill-fitting suits and the trembling hands.

 

“You have budgets?” Viktor says instead, falling into the slightly vapid tone he prefers using whenever he is more Akhmatova than Viktor. Katsuki sends him a deeply unimpressed glance that flickers into uncertainty, and his cheeks stain pink when Viktor meets the glance with a wink.

 

“Stop making him feel uncomfortable, Vitya,” Georgi mutters in his ear, and Viktor imagines him rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disapproval in a way that reminds Viktor of Yakov. Viktor’s only response is a soft laugh and a tap against the dark window separating them.

 

They arrive only a couple of minutes later, stopping in front of a palace that is as impressive as it is impossible, the walls a shining white and its towers impossibly high and intertwining over the lake surrounding them. It would be an impressive enough sight in daylight, but at night, it is remarkable. The walls are lit by scattered lights and over the lake dance lanterns, slowly drifting on the currents. Coiled bouquets of white roses and lilies intertwined with satin and diamonds hang from the windows and rest over the marble walls, lending the air a sweet scent. Occasionally, a wind rustles through them, bringing with it petals and diamond dust, coating the arriving guests’ shoulders, making it seem as natural as the falling snow.

 

He holds out a hand for Katsuki to take, but is still a bit surprised when the man actually does. Viktor slips an arm around the other's slim waist, words coming from underneath his smile as the other man tenses ever so slightly, “Remember our cover.” 

 

Fake names, made to sound important enough to warrant entrance but unimportant enough to escape attention, with an impending wedding to excuse their closeness and the way they whisper secrets into each others ears. Viktor is adept at this game and slips into the role of lovestruck fool with ease. He has to swallow his surprise when Katsuki taps his chest with only slightly trembling fingers before touching the side of his jaw with such a featherlight touch it could as well have been one of the falling petals.

 

“I do remember, love.” Katsuki wears a smile that can only be described as smitten, and the sight of it makes Viktor warm slightly, before he catches the escaping fingers with his own and brings them to his lips to kiss. There is an answering stutter in Katsuki’s breath, but the answering smile is as practiced and acted as everything else.

 

“Daichi! Fedor!” Christophe looks absolutely resplendent in his emerald green tuxedo, with a gold-embroidered, fur lined cape hanging over his shoulders. “You made it!” He gives a large smile and clasps Viktor’s arm when they come close enough, turning to kiss Katsuki’s cheeks. He whispers something to Katsuki, who smiles and whispers something back, making Christophe break into pealing laughter. He introduces them quickly and charmingly to the men and women surrounding him, each of them smiling politely but soon losing interest as they are introduced to finer and richer gentlemen.

 

Viktor and Katsuki separate themselves from the group, trailing into the banquet hall that is as remarkable and magnificent as the outside. Viktor makes note of the closed doors, which ones the servants use and which the black-clad security guards keep under close guard. Katsuki, gracefully accepting two glasses of champagne before giving one to Viktor, does the same. It takes them only a minute to identify the host, a red-faced and haughty-eyed woman dressed in blue. 

 

Duchess Katya Irachniva is a woman who lives on the promises of old families rather than on actual money. She hates the noveau rich with a passion but is not rich enough to actively exclude them. She is also, if Perchta’s information was correct, one of the primary backers of the Tsarists.

 

“I hear,” someone says in Russian behind them, and Viktor tilts his head slightly, smiling gently down at Katsuki to hide the fact that he’s listening in, “that she has struck up quite the friendship with a General.”

 

“A military man?” another answers, a soft gasp in their words. “How  _ scandalous _ .”

 

The people behind them move away, but Viktor files the information away and pretends to whisper sweet nothings into Katsuki’s ear in order to tell him what he just heard. He notices how the other man’s eyes flicker shut at the first brush of his breath against his ear and is, for just a moment, struck by how long sweeping eyelashes fall over pink cheeks. It is a discomforting feeling which Viktor takes great care to ignore.

 

They make the rounds, Viktor making his accent heavier than usual, making sure to thread his words with the slight shrillness of someone born with money and without any sense of how to make it. Katsuki is mostly quiet, answering in broken English and smiling a bit emptily when someone tries to speak to him.

 

It is three - exhausting - hours later when they finally see the duchess slip something to a servant. Katsuki gives a short nod when Viktor traces his fingers along the line of Katsuki’s throat to pull his attention to it. It has become a game, or an experiment, of sorts, to see what Katsuki reacts to. Soft fingers against his throat does nothing, but a sweet smile and a softly whispered endearment makes his face flush underneath the other man's carefully constructed mask. By the slightly acidic glances (sometimes flickering, falling back into nervous with an odd kind of familiarity) Katsuki sends him, the man is at least somewhat aware of what Viktor is doing.

 

Both of them track the servant making her way to a surprisingly nondescript man wearing a dark blue tuxedo in a way that makes Viktor suspect that the man doesn’t wear this kind of finery often. His back is straight, not with the arrogant lift of his chin like an aristocrat, but rather with the rigidness of a soldier. Ah, the General, it seems. The servant hands over envelope, together with a glass of champagne, and the General slips it into his jacket, none too subtly.

 

“You owe me a dance,” Chris interrupts, distracting Viktor momentarily. Chris has been drinking, his green eyes swimming with mirth and something not unlike desperation. A clone never lives past forty and rarely makes it past thirty. There is always something frantic to the different Perchta’s, an unmistakeable knowledge of their own mortality. It sets Viktor’s teeth on edge, that sort of frantic desperation, especially when it comes from someone that Viktor probably would’ve called a friend in a world where he wasn’t Akhmatova and Christophe wasn’t Perchta. He hesitates, for just a second, but before he can answer, Katsuki steps between them, one hand held out for Christophe to take.

 

“I am not Viktor,” he says, quietly and smoothly and with nary a shake to his voice. Christophe blinks, slowly, “but I have been told I am adequate at dancing.”

 

Christophe is a lot of things, and weak to pretty men asking him for a dance is definitely one of them. So he takes Katsuki’s hand with a smile and is swept onto the dancefloor. Katsuki sends a glance backwards and then does a miniscule twitch of his head towards the General, who is talking pleasantly to another man who wears a tuxedo like it’s body armor.

 

Viktor moves closer to the General, charming his way into a conversation with a young lady who won’t stop fidgeting with her diamond necklace. She tells him about her studies and Viktor finds himself, almost unwittingly, watching Katsuki and Chris on the dancefloor.

 

_ Adequate dancer _ ,  _ indeed _ , Viktor thinks to himself, smiling and nodding at the woman who just made a face when describing her latest run-in with the one professor that wouldn’t take her mother’s bribes, and watches Katsuki’s hand resting softly on Christophe’s waist as he leads them in gentle spins around the ballroom. The General doesn’t move, his attention swept up by a sweet-voiced young man wearing red lipstick, and so Viktor allows himself to watch as Katsuki proves himself to be  _ quite _ the adequate dancer.

 

It takes a while for Chris to fall into step but it takes only a moment longer for him to be charmed, to smile with a light dusting of pink over his nose as he and Katsuki glide across the dancefloor. Katsuki is moving with the same kind of surety as he did in the battle with Yuri, his shoulders kept straighter, his movements surer. Like this, Viktor might even call Katsuki handsome.

 

The General shifts slightly, and Viktor snaps his attention back to his conversation with the fidgeting lady and watching the General, who seemed to be making a rather poor attempt at flirtation with the young man wearing lipstick. He asks the woman a generic question about her opinion on food stamps and she goes into another rant, not even noticing when his attention slips back out to the dancefloor.

 

The dance is a bit wilder, with Christophe’s grin egging them on as he and Katsuki touch their fingertips lightly together in a rather elaborate way. Their turns are sharper and wider, and when Katsuki folds his arm out to let Christophe spin, it is done with a bit more flourish. There is a slight pause in the music, during which Chris gives a rather elaborate bow and Katsuki, wearing a soft smile, responds with his own, with far less flash and far more propriety. They hook their arms together when the music swells again, and Katsuki folds his arm behind his back as they twirl, side by side, amongst the other couples.

 

When they come together again, Katsuki’s slender hand resting on Christophe’s lower back once more, they are both smiling. They look good, together, with Chris resting on Katsuki’s arm like a jewel and Katsuki looking very much like a the leading role from an old black and white movie (in a rented tuxedo, no less).

 

The General has unbuttoned his jacket, probably in response to the rather coquettish fluttering of the young man’s eyelashes, and Viktor sees the edges of the envelope in the man's inner pocket. He also, in true Akhmatova fashion, sees an opportunity.

 

He moves slightly to the right, which puts him in the path of a drunk and rather burly lord who is stalking along the lines of the dance floor, making the man barge into him within seconds. He exaggerates the blow, trips over his own feet, and pushes the lady whose one-sided conversation takes a rather abrupt stop as she falls backwards, landing neatly on the General, her drink spilling over the two of them.

 

“Sir!” Viktor says with an accent so heavy it is almost comical, “I am sorry.“ He helps the man onto his feet. “I did not -”

 

“Let go of me,” the General growls, which deepens the scar he has running over his lip. He pats his jacket, looking for the envelope, and his shoulders relax when he finds it. Viktor unfolds his pocket square with a flick of his wrist and dabs on the damp splotches covering the man’s suit. He is forcefully pushed away, with a scowl, and Viktor holds up his hands in capitulation, submissively casting his gaze to the ground.

 

He disappears into the crowd, surprisingly easily for a man with such a flair for the dramatics, and watches the General curse colorfully, dabbing down his jacket with Viktor’s pocket square. The younger man, clearly seeing an opportunity in the way only a hot-blooded young man could, bites his lip and makes a soft suggestion into the General’s ear.

 

“Not sure how I feel about having to steal the envelope while they are —” Katsuki seemingly melts out from the shadow and makes a rather non-committal wave with his right hand “— uh, you know.” He finishes lamely, making Viktor snort. 

 

“Having sex?” Viktor offers, watching in a fascination as Katsuki’s cheeks flush. The man had just charmed Christophe into practically eating out of his hand, but then he turned around and was blushed over sex. It was a fascinating contradiction, but they had a job to do. Both of their gazes follow the General and the young man as they leave the ballroom into a corridor. “Ah, the pocket square is laced with a sedative.” He wiggles his own, glove-clad fingers. “They will probably not get much further than to bed before they fall asleep.” He removes his gloves, puts them in his pocket and mourns only briefly the way the bulge of them ruins the line of his jacket.

 

He bows, carefully replicating the way Katsuki had done it earlier on the dancefloor. Katsuki looks unimpressed.

 

“Shall we?” He holds out his hand, smiling when the other man takes it, and leads them down the same corridor the others just disappeared into.

  
  


**Broom Closet in An Elegant and Ancient Palace, Zurich, Switzerland. 23rd december, 20XX.**

 

“I thought you said they were going to be sedated?” Katsuki says, not quite low enough to be a whisper, shifting his weight so that he isn’t sitting right on the slightly damp part of a mop. Viktor, who is gingerly maneuvering his long limbs into a more agreeable pose, only shrugs.

 

“Drugs that are absorbed through skin are always a bit hit and miss,” he whispers back, carefully making sure that he isn’t sitting in something that will stain. “They should fall asleep. Eventually.”

 

Katsuki isn’t the type of man to glare, as far as Viktor knows, but the exasperated glance the other man sends him certainly has all the beginnings of a rather impressive one. Viktor just smiles at him, arching his back a little bit to sit a bit more comfortably, which makes Katsuki’s eyes flicker up and down the length of his body for just a split second. Viktor files that glance away for later, as something to add to the puzzle that is Yuuri Katsuki.

 

The silence that follows is not necessarily an uncomfortable one, but it’s not really that comfortable either. They wait, patiently, something Viktor hates with as much passion a spy can afford to have. Katsuki has leaned his head backwards, resting it against the hard wall, eyes closed.

 

“Why did you retreat from the palace?” Viktor asks suddenly, smooth and charming on his best days, but never quite enough so to quash his endless curiosity. Katsuki blinks his eyes open, tilting his head and looking at him. The man seems to gauge his reason behind the question for a while and seemingly deems his intentions good enough because he answers, voice low and even.

 

“I would have died.”

 

Viktor blinks at that, furrowing his brow.

 

“You  _ could  _ have died,” he concedes, in the end, but Katsuki shakes his head with a bit of a frown.

  
“They were over forty men strong, I would’ve died.” There is a stain of red over his cheeks, and the next words come out with a bit of stammer, “I r-regret not finding more information, but I never expected to do anything  _ but _ retreat if they found me.” Katsuki is looking at him with something swimming in dark, brown eyes, and Viktor feels fundamentally unsettled by it. He flicks his hair and gives a bit of a teasing grin.

 

“Better to go out in a blaze of glory, no?” He winks and bites back his surprise when the response his display gets from Katsuki is just a slightly concerned glance.

 

“Not really.”

 

Viktor wonders how it feels, to value your own life higher than the story your death would tell. He looks down at his hands, his nails well-manicured but hands calloused, hardened skin stretching from where a gun would rest, where his hands would grasp a knife. When he looks up, there is something very sad resting in Katsuki’s eyes.

 

It prickles along his skin in an entirely uncomfortable way, and when there is a crash from the other side of the door, he is quick to settle a smile onto his lips.

 

“Only half an hour late. Told you it would happen. Eventually.”

 

He reaches for the doorknob and is eternally grateful that Katsuki, with his furrowed brow and worried eyes, don’t pursue the subject further.

  
  


**Spare Office in An Elegant and Ancient Palace, Zurich, Switzerland. 23rd december, 20XX.**

 

Viktor leans over Katsuki’s shoulder as the man taps something into his phone, quickly going through the millions of encrypted files that had been on the USB inside the envelope. Surprisingly modern, for the Tsarists, really, but Viktor supposes that even the most traditionalist sects have to update eventually. 

 

“I can’t believe you destroyed my tie,” Katsuki says with a certain exasperation to his tone, and Viktor gives an incredibly innocent shrug.

 

“I could do nothing else,” Viktor says, eyes downcast, deep sadness dripping off every word, “I had to use  _ something _ to relight the fire.” When Katsuki only shakes his head in response to that, muttering something in rapid Japanese under his breath as he makes sure that there is no tracking virus amongst the files, Viktor gives a bright smile. He swears, even though his view of the other man's face isn’t the best, that there is just the hint of an answering smile twitching along Katsuki’s lips.

 

“Ready to rejoin the party?” Viktor says as he removes a bit of dirt from Katsuki’s rented suit. “Christophe would love another dance, if I know him right.” He leans closer, carefully resting his thumb against a sliver of skin above Katsuki’s collar. There is a small, almost not-there shiver, and Viktor files it away with the earlier glance and the hints of a stutter in regret. Maybe Yuuri Katsuki is neither the invisible man nor the charming playboy. Maybe he is the sum of both, with other things sprinkled in between.

 

There is a slight thrum underneath his skin, because while this wasn’t  _ quite _ as exciting as the time he single-handedly fought his way out of a submarine while water poured in through the galley, it was still a mission and it was still  _ done _ and done well.

 

Katsuki turns around, sliding from the chair and unto the desk. The light from the full moon reflected off the snow filters in through the sheer white curtains and casts him in a light that makes his skin glow and his eyes glint. Viktor watches in naked fascination as Katsuki pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth and worries it, brown eyes glittering underneath long, black eyelashes. The moment stretches on, something unsaid resting between them. Viktor swallows.

 

“Yuuri, I -”

 

A movement outside the door yanks their attention to the door, where a shadow has appeared in the slit of light, Katsuki grabs his tie and brings their lips together. Nimble fingers works on the buttons to Viktor’s shirt and Viktor grips Katsuki’s hips as he steps between the others spread legs, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. Katsuki gives a soft moan, which is fake, but the hitch of breath that follows it, when Viktor nips a plump bottom lip, is not. Long, slender fingers rake through his hair and Viktor shivers when nails scrape against the nape of his neck.

 

Someone clears their throat at the door, and Viktor looks up. A guard, who is trying his best to look professional and polite despite the spread of embarrassment on his features, smiles a bit apologetically.

 

“I am sorry, sirs,” the guard says, squaring his shoulders, “This area is off-limits.”

 

“Ah.” Viktor says, letting his voice deepen into the Fedor’s thick Russian accent, “Well, this is embarrassing, is it not, my heart?” Katsuki hides his face against Viktor’s jacket and nods with a bit of fervor. “We apologize,” Viktor says with a grin while the guard just keeps smiling politely as Viktor buttons his shirt and Katsuki stuffs his shirt back into his trousers.

 

“It is really not a big deal, sirs,” the guard says with the carefully guarded and slightly exasperated tone of someone who has had to break up quite a bit too many trysts like this during the evening. “It is just my job to make sure that as many people as possible stay in the ballroom.”

 

“Well then, my darling,” Viktor says to Katsuki as he carefully steps into place next to him, placing one arm around the smaller man's shoulders, “I suppose we must try to keep our hands to ourselves, for a while longer.” Katsuki, face dusted pink and voice carefully shrill, only gives a high-pitched giggle. They walk out the door, leaning a bit too heavily on each other, playing the part of a horny, drunk couple with ease, and Viktor gives a bright smile as he pressed two hundred euro bills into the hand of the guard. “We really are sorry,” he says with a bit of a wink, and the guard blinks down at the money before quickly stuffing it into his pocket.

 

“Don’t mention it, sirs.” He closes the door as they leave, smiling a bit easier. “You have a good night, now.”

 

When they are out of sight, they step to the side and Viktor watches Katsuki run a hand over his burning face, willing the flush to go down.

 

“Shame about the tie,” Viktor says a bit glibly, hiding a rapidly beating heart underneath a bland tone, “we’ll cause quite a scandal, walking out like this.”

 

“Good thing I have another one, then,” Katsuki says, eyes carefully blank and tone level, taking out a tie  _ identical _ to the last one from his pocket. Viktor narrows his eyes, glaring first at the tie and then at Katsuki’s serene face.

 

“Do you really just carry around a spare in your pocket?” Katsuki flicks up his collar, starts tying the tie into a simple windsor knot. His hands are trembling slightly and when Viktor waves his hands away to help, he lets them rest against his side, tilting his head backwards to allow Viktor better access.

 

“Yes,” Katsuki answers, giving a small smile as Viktor expertly finishes the knot. “Good thing they were really cheap, so that I have a lot of them,” he finishes, breathing out a low huff of laughter at Viktor’s grimace. Something shifts between them, and Viktor lets his hand linger ever so slightly as he flicks Katsuki’s collar down again, fingers brushing against pale skin.

 

When Katsuki’s hand rests against his chest once more as they step into the ballroom, it feels like a brand. Viktor gives the other man a smile, and doesn’t even know how much of that is part of the act.

 

**Getaway Car, An Elegant and Ancient Palace, Zurich, Switzerland. 23rd december, 20XX.**

 

It is a couple of hours later, with dawn spreading its fingers over the snow covered landscape, that they fall into the backseat of the limo. Katsuki pulls the laptop to him immediately, quickly transferring and running the files through a myriad of decryption keys. Viktor runs a hand over his face and turns to tap a finger against the dark window.

 

“Ivanov, we’re ready to go,” he says, pulling the knot of his tie down to make it a bit easier to breathe. It had been a long night and he had never been much of an night owl, so all he really wanted was to get to an hotel and fall into bed. He rests his head against the glass, closing his eyes briefly.

 

“Isn’t that—” Katsuki breaks off, turning the computer towards Viktor as the man opens his eyes and blinks at the screen, “Isn’t that the woman from the photo?” An image of a woman, hair brown instead of red, eyes black instead of green, looks back at them. There are some changes, the woman in the photo at Hanako’s had been softer, broad smile instead of a haughty smirk, but there is a likeness between the two that can’t be dismissed. There is also something else that is familiar, something that tries to will itself to the surface. He has seen this woman before, somewhere—

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice, low and melodious and quite a bit too female to be Georgi, is heard through the speakers. The glass separating the driver from the passengers lowers with a slight whirr, and Viktor is suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun and into a woman’s black eyes. “But you are being  _ quite _ the little bothers, aren’t you?”

 

“ _ Anya _ .” Viktor growls, and remembers the woman Georgi had kissed outside of the pub in St. Petersburg, once, remembers the turn of her cheek and the red of her lips. Whatever he wanted to say next is stolen from him as Georgi turns to them, eyes blank, gun pointing at Katsuki.

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I know some authors interpret Yuuri as the slightly suicidal one, but I never really thought that. I always saw Yuuri as the one out of him and Viktor who always saw a future after ice-skating. It might be a bleak one, and he might have been pessimistic about it, but at least he saw a future. I always got the impression that the big thing Yuuri gave Viktor was the idea that something existed after the ice.
> 
> In other news, the way I plan stories is basically just lining up klichés I like and want to use and then string words between them. Fake dating is a favourite, and so is UST at a fancy ball, so here we go.
> 
> All the worlds thanks to my beta, pardonthelitany, who basically wrangled my amateur english into shape. I will probably not go back because I hate to go back on stuff I write and I will view it as a monument to show how much good work she did betaing this chapter. Seriously, I am so happy, I had no idea I could write this well.
> 
> I have a tumblr! metasyster.tumblr.com, if anyone wants to contact me that way!


	4. Chapter 4

**Concrete Stave Silo, Undetermined City, Probably Still Switzerland, 24th-ish December, 20XX**

 

Viktor would like to say that he wakes up from a dream of Georgi, because that would be sufficiently melodramatic. Maybe he would wake up from remembering something like when he and Georgi were in mortal danger for the first time and Georgi tried to be brave, tried to be the stronger man even though he was the weaker agent, and how he had actually cried when Viktor finally had figured out the way to bypass the malfunctioning garbage compactor. 

 

Or perhaps a better choice would have been a dream about when an overly ambitious group of traitors and conspirators had tried to torture Viktor’s location (amusingly, the vents above them) out of Georgi. He had taken the beating, the electrocution, and the, frankly, dismal cutting skills of a nervous looking conspirator and then still found the strength to give Viktor a rather cracked smile and a horrifying pun (“nice of you to drop by, Vitya”) once Viktor had broken the necks of his torturers.

 

But, sadly, knock-out drugs do not work as such, and he wakes up on the floor instead, with cotton mouth, a horrifying headache, and without really thinking of Georgi at all. Katsuki, still knocked out, is handcuffed to the other side of the ladder. Viktor blinks, tests his own bonds, and unsurprisingly finds them to be as relentless as steel handcuffs tend to be. He groans while leaning his head back against the concrete wall. It’s a silo, and by the stiffness in his joints, he hasn’t been here for more than twenty-four hours. Which also means that it’s, at most, Sunday.

 

He prays, to a God he never quite believed in but Georgi did, that he has a couple of hours to get out before he and Katsuki are crushed underneath a couple of tonnes of oats. Death by grain was never on his top ten list of preferred ways to die and so Viktor decides, right then and there, that he’s going to survive this.

 

They had been recruited at the same time, he and Georgi, both of them streetkids from St. Petersburg. Viktor had spent the first five years of their training being an ungrateful little shit, while Georgi had spent his first ten being obedient and grateful. Viktor had still been chosen first for a Name, and Georgi had been a bit bitter, but had still spent almost five hours curled around Viktor the day after he’d killed his first mark. Viktor didn’t have a lot of friends, but surprisingly dramatic, endlessly serious, and dour-dressed Georgi was one of them. Had been. He reminds himself.  _ Had been. _

 

Viktor bites off a curse, before he takes a breath, and remembers the thing Yakov always told them whenever they broke down during one of the gruelling exercises that had been so common during the former Gumilev’s rule: “Job first, feelings second, Vitya. A ticking bomb does not care for your feelings, and will not respond to crying.”

 

Katsuki is still knocked out, cracked glasses hanging cracked off his nose, so there is no audience to Viktor’s remarkable skills. And since no one is watching, Viktor allows himself a grunt of pain as he dislocates his thumb by pressing it against the steel of the ladder.

 

Georgi was good, even great, but playing second-fiddle to Viktor always made him seem worse than he was. Viktor was brilliant, sensational and vaguely suicidal, a combination that was difficult to compete with, especially when it came with an insatiable thirst for greatness and a streak of talent almost a river wide. Viktor wonders, disassociating in a way that is fifty percent trained and fifty percent a result of being ragingly depressed, as he slips his cuffs with practiced ease, if that was why Georgi had turned against the Acmeists.

 

“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” he says, wincing as he curls up on the floor, back against the concrete walls of the silo, fingers pressing against his thumb to will back any sort of fight into his dangerously detached mind. He is addressing Katsuki, for reasons he can’t really make sense off, and he imagines Katsuki answering  _ okay _ in that low, soft voice of his.

 

“We were allowed to choose, you know, when we joined the training camp.” The pain sizzles through the memories of Georgi, scrawny and with tears in his eyes, hiding behind Viktor as Yakov towers above them, preparing them for a life that would never truly belong to them but was still better than the alternative. “And I choose Christmas Day, because of course I did.” Sometimes, people act as if Viktor isn’t aware of his dramatic strand, as if Viktor doesn’t wield it in the same way he wields a knife or his smile.

 

“Georgi choose the day after me, because—” that’s where he always was, little Georgi, light-eyed and dark-haired, trailing after Viktor. He pauses, closing his eyes and forces himself to breathe as he imagines Katsuki’s large, serious eyes watching him as he falls to pieces over a lost friend. He bites off a sob that tears out of him like a sudden wind through a partially closed window and he wipes a hand over his eyes as he allows himself to cry, for just a second.

 

“This is so him, you know?” Georgi hid his melodrama underneath dour glares and black suits, but he had always been so quick to follow behind Viktor on the man's increasingly insane missions, always just a step behind, raising objections to the more ridiculous things (the pink convertible, the jewelry hanging off Viktor’s neck and arms, the overly elaborate ways of killing men and women who had wronged their country) in a way that suggested that it was mostly for show. Georgi was a romantic, through and through, and said he drank Martinis because he liked them but actually did it because he built his entire persona on the idea of a gentleman spy.

 

“It’s so him to lock us up in a silo, with hours to live. I’m almost surprised he isn’t here, pointing a gun at my head, telling me that this was his plan  _ all along _ .” The pain from his thumb starts to thrum into the muscles of his arm, and Viktor knows that if he wants his hand to be useful for the long day ahead as they hunt down their traitor, he has to set it right. “He was always such a melodramatic little shit, my Ivanov,” Viktor says, finally, voice soft.

 

“Okay.” At the sound of Katsuki’s low, gentle voice, Viktor startles in a way that is mostly hilarious but also quite a bit sad. Katsuki’s eyes are full of sympathy, dark brows knitted over broken and crooked glasses. The radiating empathy feels like a slap in the face, and Viktor looks off to the side, curling his undamaged hand into the tattered remains of his suit.

 

“Viktor—” Katsuki starts, and the name feels almost alien in the other man's soft and carefully unaccented voice, the unobtrusiveness of the way it’s said somehow makes it even worse.

 

“Don’t, Takehigo,” he rasps, carefully looking at a slight unevenness in the concrete wall right above Katsuki’s head. “ _ Don’t. _ ”

 

The silence is welcome, but the steady gaze of Katsuki burns into his skin as he carefully removes his jacket, twins the arms of it together and puts the fabric between his teeth. His breathing, on instinct, speeds up as he starts leveraging pressure against his thumb to pop it back into place. The scream is muffled and his jaw locks into place for almost a full minute as the pain wrecks through him. The jacket, which might’ve been saved by a good dry-cleaning service before, tears.

 

Just a second, Viktor thinks, resting a hand against his sweaty brow as he carefully drags another breath into his lungs. Just a second, before he starts working on Katsuki’s handcuffs, before they leave the silo and start to hunt the man who betrayed him, who betrayed the Acmeists.  _ Just a second _ .

 

“I’m sorry, Akhmatova,” Katsuki says, voice so soft it is almost swallowed by the weight of Viktor’s sadness, “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Viktor, broken and living and carefully counting every breath he pulls into tired lungs, doesn’t answer.

 

**Salaryman Safehouse, Vaduz, The Principality of Liechtenstein, 24th December, 20XX**

 

“Contacting the Acmeists is a bad idea and so is contacting the Salarymen. We are alone in this,” Viktor says, buttoning up the slightly too thin and large white shirt with steady hands. “Ivanov had complete control over my communication when he turned. It would be foolish of us to not think they still have a foot in between me and HQ.” He smooths his palms over his chest, doing an odd kind of shiver as he feels the polyester material against the skin of his palms. “And while he wasn’t in quite as deep of a control of yours, we don’t  _ know _ , and it would be foolish to risk anything.”

 

“Going blind into whatever plan they have, just the two of us, is just as bad,” Katsuki answers, squinting into his glasses as he calibrates them to his preferred settings. “They’ve turned four agents, two of whom were Named, we have to—”

 

“They also left us in a silo with not quite enough drugs in our systems,” Viktor cuts off, stepping into a pair of fake leather shoes. He pauses, looks up at Katsuki who carefully adjusts the glasses on his nose, tapping his finger against the side. Their gazes catch and Katsuki shakes his head, breaking their eye contact and looking down at his hands. The skin around his wrists is red and will probably turn to a fetching and mottled purple and blue in a couple of hours.

 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Katsuki sighs and Viktor rubs a hand over the still aching burn of his thumb, presses his fingers against it to feel the dull throb rise again. Viktor doesn’t answer, even though he agrees and instead busies himself with tapping on the computer they bought from a blurry eyed, bored teen in the village closest to the silo. He carefully, and with a fair bit of resolution, does not think about Georgi.

 

The information on the screen is the same as the last time he checked. It’s an image of three dead agents and one alive, all of them eclipsed by three images of Anya Romanov. They had been making calls the entire drive from Switzerland, following breadcrumbs left by a megalomaniacal heir to the non-existent Russian throne. While Katsuki was surprisingly good with a computer, he was even better after Viktor had allowed him to call a friend that was apparently good enough to find the encrypted trail left by Georgi’s agent-chip.

 

They pieced together what they could, from stolen files and a decryption program downloaded from a suspicious website. Anya Romanov was charismatic, beautiful, and certifiably deluded, believing herself to be the true ruler of Russia.

 

“Why do all these people seem to think Liechtenstein is fair game?” Viktor presses a key, hiding Georgi and the other agents behind a lovingly written declaration of the Utopia to Come, of a traitor being killed and sacrificed. Viktor runs a hand through his hair, leaving the computer to walk over to the closet.

 

“Maybe because Liechtenstein doesn’t have an Agency?” Katsuki says, rubbing a hand over his chin. “They do only have the one agent.” Katsuki shrugs, easing into his ill-fitting suit with something that could almost be called relief.

 

“And a contract with every single other agency out there promising aid or swift revenge, if need be,” Viktor mutters underneath his breath. “None of this makes any sense,” he says, softly, repeating Katsuki’s earlier words.

 

He takes out one of the suit jackets from the closet and makes a small noise in the back of his throat at the sight of it. It’s hideous. The buttons are plastic, the fabric is barely enough wool to keep warm, and it’s sack cut. Not even Viktor pulls off a sack cut.

 

“Do you need a tie?” Katsuki asks, eyebrow raised and lip twitching. Viktor shoots him a glare before turning to the mirror and looking himself up and down. He looks awful. Drab and unimaginative.

 

“You are a bit ridiculous.” Katsuki’s voice is lined with a soft and surprised kind of amusement. Viktor flicks his hair, giving a brilliant smile that flashes off his lips with the kind of practiced ease that comes from living a life where lying is as essential to staying alive as breathing.

 

“Ah, you sound like Ge—” Viktor flinches, still smiling. “People have told me.” Katsuki is looking sympathetic again, and Viktor feels like tearing off his skin where the gaze touches him. 

 

The ensuing silence stretches out like a yawn between them. Viktor sits down on the bed; it is hard and practical, just like the Salarymen. Everything in this room, from the ugly suits to the spartan bed to Katsuki’s carefully hunched back, wears the same kind of general drabness and mundanity. Viktor feels exposed, sitting in an ill-fitting suit that vaguely reminds him of the ones Georgi wore before he got his Name and Viktor  _ finally _ had an Acmeist budget to spend on outfitting his friend in something generally less awful..

 

Akhmatova has been betrayed before. They have been beaten, tortured and deceived. It’s carried in the name, the bleeding heart and freely given trust. As Akhmatova, Viktor has been strung along by beautiful men and women with empty promises, but as  _ Viktor... _

 

He’d never known them like he knew Georgi. He’d never loved them like he loved Georgi. They’d never known  _ Viktor _ like Georgi knew him. He feels numb, somewhere underneath the shattering feeling of his breaking heart. When Katsuki speaks, it is stilted in a way it usually isn’t, but it’s also a bit more sure, words said with force laced through the syllables.

 

“Her name was Yuuko.” Katsuki’s isn’t looking at him, but he sits down next to Viktor, carefully making sure they aren’t touching. “S-she and Nishigori were recruited at the same time.” His hands tighten in his lap. “She was the best one, out of all of us.” Katsuki looks up at him underneath his bangs, a smile on his lips. “At least three of the things that young Yuri of yours attribute to me were actually hers.”  The smile dies, slowly. “It says a lot about you, that you managed to kill her.”

 

Viktor looks down at his hands, at the dirt underneath his nails, and wonders if he should apologize.

 

“You’re not here on orders,” Viktor says, low and quiet, and Katsuki gives another small smile in response.

 

“Officially, we’re on vacation.” Katsuki gives a shrug, and Viktor adds another piece to his puzzle, one that fits in right next to the man who dances like he was born to do it. “Unofficially, we threatened to quit.”

 

“And they would rather let you go on a chase than lose you.”

 

Katsuki, a man of infuriating differences and opposites, bites his lip and glances off to the side, as though he wasn’t a man worthy of praise, as though he hadn’t carried them through three missions with practiced ease. “Sometimes it pays to be my mothers son.”

 

“I’m sorry about Yuuko,” Viktor says, in the end, voice heavy and words burning on his tongue. Katsuki, brows knitting over his large, beautiful eyes, looks back with a smile that could carry the dawn itself.

 

“And I’m sorry about Georgi.”

 

For a small, stolen moment, they allow themselves to grieve for dead friends and broken hearts.

 

_ Job first _ . Viktor thinks, fingers brushing against Katsuki’s as their hands rest next to each other on the bed,  _ Feelings second. _

 

**An Elegant and Stylish Bar, Vaduz, Principality of Liechtenstein, 24th December 20XX**

 

“Seediest bar I could find,” the Quartermaster of the Calciatori says as he leans back against the plush red fabric of his armchair. “Not every day I’m called to Liechtenstein for a delivery.” His strong jaw makes his smile look a lot more severe than Viktor, through experience, knows that he is.

 

“Celestino,” Katsuki answers with a bit of a tremble to his voice but a small twitch of a smile on his lips, “Thank you for coming.”

 

“Well, you know what they say—” Cialdini shakes his head, which makes his impressive mane of hair bob with the movement, “—if a Katsuki calls, you better answer.” He holds up his glass of incredibly expensive and light-colored beer, as if to toast the trembling man who looks as though he would apologize to the wind if a stiff breeze knocked him over.

 

“We need weapons,” Viktor cuts in, the skin of his shoulders itching in his polyester jacket, “And a promise to be quiet about it.” He feels a bit ragged, carefully not thinking about Georgi and the way the man is planning to kill the third youngest prince of Liechtenstein, a man so innocuous and unobtrusive it is decidedly  _ odd _ to connect him to Anya’s rambling descriptions of a traitor.

 

“I think I’m the judge of that, Akhmatova,” Cialdini says, still smiling as he shifts his weight, his slightly too-tight italian suit stretching over his chest. “Tread carefully.” There is a low sound of warning underneath the man’s warm tone of voice, as artificial as the smile. Viktor meets the older man's gaze with slightly narrowed eyes, but gives a curt nod after a while, carefully folding his gaze away to rest against the spotless wood of their table.

 

“Yuuri, I know you would not swear me to secrecy if you didn’t absolutely need to,” Cialdini says as he taps slightly knobby fingers against the edges of his glass. “But this does not look good, you know.”

 

“I know,” Katsuki answers, voice endlessly gentle and soft, and Viktor almost sees the way it soothes away the rough edges of Cialdini’s suspicion. “We are encroaching on another agent’s territory, but we looked, and they are nowhere to be found.” It is a lie; they haven’t looked. Liechtenstein is a country obsessed with blood and heritage, and the role of Tiberius is thereby passed down from son to son and would be as worthless as hereditary agents usually are. Viktor tries to find the tremble of Katsuki’s voice, to pinpoint the lie, but his voice does not waver. Instead Katsuki blinks his large, brown eyes at Cialdini with nothing but utmost sincerity. “We think the Liechtenstein royals might be in danger.”

 

“You do know they have spares, right?” Cialdini says, raising a bushy eyebrow and taking another swig of his beer. “They grow them in vats, underneath the castle.”

 

“Those are only rumours, Evani, you know that.” Katsuki wrings his hands, carefully glances up at Cialdini underneath long, sweeping eyelashes. “The Liechtenstein royals might not be the most important Family, but they are still  _ people. _ ” Katsuki fists his hands on the table, squares his shoulders and looks the very image of someone who just wants to  _ help _ and says, “They still deserve to  _ live _ .”

 

Viktor swears that he can pinpoint the moment Cialdini starts to waver, when the earnestness of Katsuki’s tone brings down the last complaint, when light catches large, wet, and honest brown eyes. Cialdini looks them over, expression only carrying the barest skeleton of the man’s former suspicions. He sighs, drains the last from his glass, and shakes his head.

 

“Buy me another beer, and we’ll talk.”

 

There is a look of slight guilt flittering through Katsuki’s gaze, but it is soon gone, and Viktor taps a finger against the man’s thigh underneath the table, gently reminding him of dead friends and loose traitors.

 

Katsuki’s back straightens, minutely, and he lifts a hand to order another glass.

 

**Vaduz Palace, Vaduz, Principality of Liechtenstein, 25th December 20XX**

 

_ Happy Birthday to me _ , Viktor thinks, slowly easing into the giddy kind of calm that comes before the execution of a rather shitty plan. Katsuki has been quietly freaking out about it the entire way to the Palace, but when they park their car a mile away from the party they need to be at, his hands are steady.

 

“Worst case scenario, we die,” Viktor says with a shrug, the shoulders of his ugly, borrowed suit bunching up underneath his ugly, borrowed jacket. He tries not to feel violated by the fact that he’s here, on his birthday, wearing a disastrously hideous suit and fails. His smile, when he speaks again, is decidedly false and just a bit too broad. “After all, since when have a guns-blazing scenario ever  _ not _ worked out?”

 

“All the time.” Katsuki says impassively, clearly not predisposed toward pre-mission giddiness like Viktor. “Akhmatova, remember, once we find Anya, we collect her and we leave.” Katsuki is looking at him in the corner of his eyes, apparently looking for something and not finding it, because his eyes narrow and he speaks again, “ _ Akhmatova _ , promise me.”

 

“Oh, certainly.” Viktor says, not so much lying as he is agreeing to a plan that he never intended to follow in the first place. When Katsuki doesn’t let up, he offers the man his patented flippant salute, which only makes Katsuki give a deep, weary sigh. Viktor, turning away from Katsuki, opens the backdoor of the car and flicks his gaze over the wide variety of weapons Cialdini had provided for them with the haste only a quartermaster could.

 

A perfect copy of the 2010 world championship soccerball hiding a bomb strong enough to level the castle with the ground is considered but discarded to make place for the classic bullet proof umbrella. He looks through the knives, thumbing the edges and feeling the weight of them in his hand, flicking the butterfly knives out of their sheathes to dance over his fingers and knuckles. He snaps them shut and pockets them, deciding to leave the more cruel knives, with barbs and hooked edges, to Katsuki.

 

Two vials of poison, each disguised as fountain pens, are put into the front pocket of his jacket together with the standard poison dart pen. Three smaller grenades, shaped as lipsticks in fetching red colours, are carefully placed in the hidden pockets of his belt. He trails his fingertips over a small Uzi but abandons it to take a simple laser pointer instead, strong enough to melt through glass and steel. Viktor steps back, adjusting the weight of his acquired equipment, and rolls his shoulders to make sure it doesn’t hinder his movements. Katsuki slides a knife, the barbs of its edges gleams in the moonlight, underneath his pants, foregoes the grenades for the inelegance of two pistols and a one-handed shotgun. He does, however, take an umbrella, just like Viktor.

 

“Guns?” Viktor gives a sharp smile, the white of his teeth stark against the darkness of the vista around them, and his eyes gleam. “How very forward of you, Takehigo.”

 

“I’m sure you’ve heard the expression, ‘bringing a knife to a gunfight,’ Akhmatova.” Katsuki picks out a couple of silencers, screws them into the barrel of his pistols with practiced and steady movements. “This is not an undercover mission, you’re going to need firepower.”

 

“I took  _ grenades, _ ” Viktor mutters underneath his breath, but Katsuki looks so unimpressed by the entire show that Viktor just sighs, in the end, and takes up the miniature pistol. It’s small enough that he could fit two into the palm of his hand without trouble, and he puts it into his pockets with exaggerated flair. He raises an eyebrow at Katsuki, who just crosses his arms over his chest until Viktor rolls his eyes and picks up the Uzi as well.

 

“There. Now I look like a barbarian, you happy?” He cocks his hip, places a hand on it and twirls holds the Uzi with the kind of dismissive energy only a true shithead of a man could muster.

 

“Fits the suit,” Katsuki says, voice gentle. He ducks, expertly, as Viktor chucks a sword disguised as a cane at him. A smile bursts out of Viktor then, sharp and thin and giddy. Katsuki shakes his head, but he smiles too, and takes a step forward, expertly maneuvering past the way Viktor sidesteps in order to make sure no one gets into his personal space.

 

They are close, for the first time since the ball, and when Viktor looks down into Katsuki’s brown eyes, there is something swimming in the other man’s gaze that he doesn’t know how to decipher. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, carefully peering down into indecipherable darkness.

 

“After this—” Katsuki starts, his hands tremble on the stiff metal of the gun, but his voice is strong and steady. He takes a breath, and starts again, “My family owns a hot spring, you know.” Viktor blinks, hands slowly curling into loose fists where they rest against his side, and ignores the bursting feeling of  _ something _ that escapes him as Katsuki looks up at him, shy and soft underneath his bangs. “You should visit.” Katsuki gives a crooked smile, and Viktor swallows and doesn’t dare to blink. “If we make it out of this alive.”

 

His heart fits into his throat and when Katsuki steps back, gives him his space, Viktor sways with the movement, as though preparing to follow him. He doesn’t, though, because Viktor had swiped the tracking software from the computer before they left, and he knows where Georgi is.

 

He was never going to follow the plan.

 

For a moment, though, with Katsuki disappearing into the shadows to flit into the rooms where Anya waits for a prince with a gun in her hands, he  _ wishes _ that he would.

 

Viktor breathes, counts down from ten, and discards the Uzi into the grass as he stalks towards the basement.

 

**Cloning room, Basement, Vaduz Castle, Vaduz, Principality of Liechtenstein, 25th of December, 20XX**

 

It is a curious thing, to walk through a room where the walls are illuminated by the softly glowing vats of the royal Liechtenstein family. The clones are in different stages of completion, ranging from infant to young adult. Their eyes blink open, at times, their gazes blank and empty, brain stems developed but not attached to the brain itself.

 

Viktor breathes out with a soft sound, placing a hand against the smooth glass of a vat containing the crown prince’s carefully constructed clone.  _ Not a rumour, then _ . On large screens next to each vat, there are numbers and lines alternating, showing the steadily beating hearts, the non-existent brain activity, and the steady flush of vitamins and nutrients into the silicone-like substance in which the clones were floating.

 

It is a large basement, almost the size of a football field, and lit only by the rows and rows of cats that stretch out before them.

 

In the front, where Viktor had entered, he had been met by the unseeing eyes of the current monarch, and a couple of rows beyond that, it had shifted to the teenage version of his queen. The prince they wanted to kill was the youngest, so if logic dictated this place, Georgi would be in the back.

 

Viktor carefully makes his way through the dark basement, sometimes pausing by a vat to take advantage of the slight light the radioactive substance would give out to take stock of his surroundings. There isn’t a sound, except for the constant hum of the machines that keep the clones alive.

 

His mind is blank as he stares into the naked faces of the Liechtenstein royal family, distantly wondering how much they had to pay the Swiss for the technology, or if their Tiberius had just stolen it for them.

 

_ None of this makes sense _ , Katsuki had said as he had tried to interpret the facts they had into something logical. How Anya was related to the men and women who had died at the hands of unnamed and named agents, how she had managed to turn agents who were loyal to so much  _ more _ than the Agencies, how she had managed to turn people that were so much better than  _ them. _ Viktor agreed with him, in theory, but he had never been one for the big picture and so he ignored it. Georgi’s betrayal thrums through his blood, itches underneath his skin. Everything but that doesn’t matter.

 

Georgi waits for him in the back, hand resting on a control pad as he stares up into the empty face of a barely seven year old clone of the youngest prince. There are wires slowly sliding in the thick, viscous substance, connecting themselves to never used muscles and a disconnected brain. On another screen, on the other side of the one that shows the vital signs of the clone, there are images flashing by in quick succession. Memories, probably, Viktor thinks as he watches Georgi sort through the images with quick hands.

 

Viktor watches him for a while, tries to determine if the man looks any different. If he looks wounded, or beaten, or malnourished.

 

There is nothing, only precise movements and the green light of the vats reflecting of blank, blue eyes. 

 

For a moment, there is nothing but the flickering lights and the slight twitching of the young clones atrophied muscles, simulated by small shocks of electricity.

 

“Vitya,” Georgi says, his voice a low rasp, his hand stopping its flicking over the control pad. His head turns slightly and the blue light shining off the pad reflects harshly over his sharply boned face. “Vitya,” he says again, blinking slowly, hand curling into a fist where it rests on the tablet. The clone opens it’s eyes, and there is a glimmer of  _ something _ in them as the wires start to connect the brain to the rest of it’s body.

 

“Gosha,” Viktor answers, the nickname catching on his tongue, slipping out of him like the last breath of a drowning man. “Oh, my Georgi,” he says, reaching into his pocket to grasp one of the butterfly knives.

 

_ This will be a good story _ , Viktor thinks, as Georgi turns to face him, prodigal son of the Acmeists facing the Acmeist’s shadow,  _ this will be the story of how I die _ .

 

It takes a split second for the careful apathy on Georgi’s face to slip into mind numbing rage, and Viktor hears Katsuki’s voice again, soft and careful,  _ none of this makes any sense _ . 

 

Georgi had always been a dramatic man, prone to fits of large emotions and deep feelings, but  _ rage _ had never been his. He was always closer to despair, his Georgi, and rage had never been close or fast to come.

 

“ _ Vitya, _ ” Georgi grinds out through gritted teeth, evading Viktor’s knife with a quick sidestep, lunging his closed fist against Viktor’s neck. Viktor manages to dodge, just barely, and aims his knife against the soft flesh of Georgi’s elbow. The knife slices through fabric and catches on skin, but Georgi moves like a man possessed and slams his arm to the side, into Viktor’s chest.

 

Viktor’s knife, before he drops it as his breath is stolen from his lungs by the blow, slices into Georgi’s flesh, leaving a clean and deep cut. Blood drips onto the floor as the clone suddenly blinks, and starts to look around, fingers coming up to grasp at the tube coming out of his throat.

 

Georgi stalks forward as Viktor stumbles backwards, trying to catch his breath. When Georgi throws another swing, Viktor ducks underneath it, making the man slam his fist into the smooth glass of another tank holding the second prince’s clone. The glass cracks, the fissures spreading across the glass like web, and Viktor ducks underneath another blow, quickly throwing his right fist out twice to strike against Georgi’s neck. Viktor dodges the next lunge as well, sidestepping to slam his elbow into the same spot of Georgi’s neck.

 

Georgi gasps, once, as if though he can’t get air, and then the second breath manages to pull air but when he exhales, it is a low, gurgling sound. Viktor digs into his pocket for his second knife, hunching his shoulders as he stalks around Georgi, flicking the blade from with a sharp movement of his wrist. Georgi, blood slowly dripping down his right arm, follows his every move with blank eyes, mouth still twisted into a teeth-baring grimace.

 

There is the sound of small fists beating against glass, and Viktor lunges forward, knife grasped in a tight fist. The first strike glances past the other’s forearm as Georgi’s blocks his blow, the second only meets air as Georgi ducks underneath it but the third finds its mark in Georgi’s side.

 

There is no flash of pain in the other man’s face, and Viktor blinks as Georgi grabs the arm holding the knife embedded in his flesh with fierce determination swimming in dark blue eyes. Georgi uses the momentum of Viktor’s strike to slam the other man into the already breaking vat, and the glass, after Viktor is slammed into it the second time, breaks completely.

 

Thick, viscous fluid drips onto the floor, mixing with shards of broken glass.

 

It  _ burns _ , and Viktor gives a low groan of pain, releasing his hold on the knife. He gasps as he falls backwards, pawing off his suit jacket, desperate to remove as much of the drenched fabric as possible.

 

Georgi just looks at him, keeps their gazes locked as he grasps the knife stuck in his side, removing it with only the slick sound of metal leaving flesh accompanying it.

Viktor is on the floor, with the fluid burning it’s way across his skin and Katsuki’s voice echoing in his ears. Georgi grasps the knife tight, knuckles whitening, and leaps forward.

 

The knife catches the side of Viktor’s face, leaving a long nasty gash over his cheek. Viktor manages to block the next strike aimed for his neck, knife going cleanly through the small muscles and thin bones of his hand instead. Georgi, eyes burning, teeth bared, punches him with his free hand, wrenching the knife free with his other. The blow is strong enough to break bone, and Viktor gives a gasp stained with blood.

 

Third stab catches Viktor in the side, the fourth strikes his stomach. The fifth—

 

This is a good story.

 

Viktor dies here, by the hands of an old friend, of an old comrade. He finally rests, broken and bloodied and dead before the legend of his name is stained by age and failed missions. The Akhmatova name passes on, to little Yuri, who will carry it so well. It will give him a purpose, the name and the death of his almost-mentor, a mission to build his character around.

 

In a couple of years, Georgi will die by the hand of an Akhmatova, it just won’t be  _ Viktor _ .

 

It’s a good story.

 

Maybe even a great one.

 

_ I don’t want to die _ . The thought comes unbidden, bursts through him like the break of dawn.

 

Georgi looks like an animal, with his teeth bared, with the green fluid burning the paleness of his skin into irritated, blotchy red.

 

Viktor blocks the sixth strike. He gives a harsh sound of pain as Georgi pushes harder, leans all his waist against Viktor’s arms, knife caught in the thick muscle of Viktor’s forearm. The pain is unbearable, each breath comes at the cost of a sharp stab of pain.  _ I don’t want to die _ . He thinks and clings onto it. He twists his body, slams his feet unto the ground and lifts his entire torso. He ignores the pain, wrenches the knife from Georgi’s grasp through sheer momentum, feels it slice through the muscle of his arm. It doesn’t matter.

 

He flips them over, straddles Georgi as he jabs with the second knuckles of his undamaged hand against the man’s exposed adam’s apple. Slams his fingers against it until Georgi gives a guttural cry, blood spilling from his mouth. Viktor lifts the knife, collecting it from the floor where it had fallen, aims for Georgi’s neck—

 

“Vitya,” Georgi rasps like a broken record through his collapsing trachea, “Vitya.” It sounds like a plea. It sounds like—

 

He hesitates. That is all it takes.

 

Georgi pushes forward, hands scrambling, breath wheezing, large hands closing over Viktor’s throat.

 

Viktor digs his nails into Georgi’s wrists, kicks his legs, but his strength is sapped quickly. His vision starts to blur. He stares into Georgi’s blank eyes, wide and wet with anger.

 

_ None of this makes any sense _ .

 

Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision as there is a sudden sharp sound to his left.

 

Katsuki kicks open the door to the basement, accompanied by gunfire. The quick, loud sound of a gun firing echoes off the concrete wall together with the sound of glass breaking and machines whirring to a stop.

 

Georgi is torn off him, thrown against the edge of a vat, tumbling over the arm of a clone that has fallen onto the floor like a doll with its strings cut when Katsuki’s gunfire broke it’s vat. Georgi bares his teeth, lifts his fists as if though to try and meet Katsuki’s pistols with his bare hands, but then his entire body jerks and he suddenly  _ runs _ .

 

Katsuki looks bewildered, a bruise on his cheek, a slight limp to his gait as he falls to Viktor’s side.

 

“Viktor—” He swallows, “Fuck, I thought I said—” 

 

He’s hurt, Viktor thinks, a bit absently, as the slight gash on Yuuri’s forehead releases a few drops of fresh blood.

 

“Yuuri,” Viktor answers, leaning up with a wince to catch the drops of blood with his fingers, “You’re hurt.”

 

“Viktor, I’m calling for help right now, just stay with me—”

 

“Gosha—” Viktor breathes out, blood gurgling in the back of his throat, “You have to get Gosha.”

 

“No, Viktor, I need to stay with you, God, you’re bleeding all over, what happened—”

 

“None of this makes any sense.” Viktor grasps that ugly fucking tie that Yuuri refuses to get rid of, stains it with his blood as he tries to lift his head. “Go get Gosha.” He takes a breath, to show that he can, presses a hand against the freely bleeding wound of his stomach. “ _ Please _ , Yuuri.” He glances to the side, where the young clone is desperately screaming inside his vat, small hands still beating against the glass. “Please,” he tries again and after an excruciatingly long moment, Yuuri gives a sharp nod, before pressing their foreheads together, locking their gazes.

 

“Stay alive, Viktor.”

 

Yuuri leaves and Viktor waits a second, waits until the other man's steps have exited the corridor leading to the outside forest, before he starts to move. Each movement is mindless pain, but he drags himself over the floor, towards the control pad next to the clone.

 

He pushes himself into standing and coughs out a thick ooze of blood over the pad before he finds his balance.

 

_ I don’t want to die _ , he thinks, and the thought itself is enough to make him push his fingers against the glowing numbers on the screen, authorizing the release of the boy in the vat. The vat opens with a sharp release of air,  _ but sometimes, there is nothing you can do about it _ .

 

He closes his eyes as he hears the clone pull his first breath without help from the machine and thinks about large, brown eyes and trembling hands.

 

Viktor’s breath stutters.

 

And stops.

 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter!
> 
> I got someone asking me about the Names and, well, the Acmeists are named after a modernist poetry movement, the Salarymen are named after the legend of Yamato Takeru (the spelling of Yuuri's name, Takehigo, can also be spelled Takehiko which I also did in the first chapter, but then a friend told me I should go the g route instead and since I am a fickle creature, here we are), the Raffeisen agency is named after the bank and Chris is named after like, the one swiss fairy tale I know. Calciatori is a name for soccerplayer in Italy and since I am an idiot, I find that hilarious. 
> 
> One chapter left! Thank you all so much for the comments, kudos and bookmarks!
> 
> If you want to come yell at me on tumblr, I'm @metasyster
> 
> Once again, BIG HUGE THANKS TO pardonthelitany who does the impossible and enormous work of betaing my english into readability. Couldn't have done it without you.


	5. Epilogue

**Zürich, Switzerland. January.**

Viktor wakes up and the first thing he sees are the meadow-green eyes of the two identical, although of different ages, Christophe Giacomettis. The youngest, still wearing white, is watching him intently. The older, who has been molding the role of Perchta into his own for the last couple of years and therefore has more of a personality, breaks into a relieved smile.

 

“Viktor,” Christopher says, his voice barely more than an exhale of breath, “I almost thought we lost you.” He looks down to his clone and gives a wave of his hand, “Go fetch a glass of water and notify the doctors, if you please.”

 

The clone, blinking up at himself, nods and presses his fingers to his lips in the same way Viktor usually does before he leaves out the door that opens for him automatically with barely a sound.

 

“Chris—” Viktor tries to say, but his throat feels like bone dust and parchment, so it mostly comes out in a low, raspy groan, “ _ Chris. _ ” He tries again and this time it is  _ almost _ words. The feeling behind it seems to be getting across though, because Christophe’s eyes are definitely looking a bit wet, and when the man gives a smile, it is bright and infinitely sad.

 

“Oh, Viktor, must you always do everything in such a magnificent manner?” Christophe trails a well-manicured finger down the side of his face, the touch so sweet and so gentle that Viktor can do nothing but close his eyes and lean into the touch.

 

The surroundings are sterile and eerily white, the clean lines of the walls and the floor only broken up by the softly beeping machines keeping Viktor’s lungs breathing and his heart beating. Christophe, in his green suit and emerald-studded choker, looks like the lover of Oberon plucked out of the forest and set into this clinical and futuristic room. 

 

“We had to grow you a new pair of lungs,” Chris continues as the almost not-there woosh of the automatic door conveys the younger clones return, “and my team of doctors had to invent a new kind of anesthesia.” Viktor can’t see the smile, closed as his eyes are, but he hears it in the other man’s voice, low and soft underneath the wistfulness. “You kept trying to wake up on the table.”

 

Viktor doesn’t know what to answer, so he doesn’t, and he doesn’t open his eyes until the cool edge of a glass is pressed against his lips.

 

At first, he is inclined to decline it, because he doesn’t necessarily feel thirsty, but once the first drops of water passes his lips, he moans and drains the entire glass quickly. He leans back against the pillow once the empty glass is pulled away and his eyelids feel heavy again. Christophe carefully brushes Viktor’s bangs away from his face, lips twitching into a broader smile as he sees Viktor struggling to keep awake.

 

“Sleep, Viktor. I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

 

Christophe’s hands pull away and Viktor feels a small soft hand grasp his before he once again falls asleep.

 

**Zürich, Switzerland. February.**

Viktor breathes in, holding it for as long as the doctor asks him too, before finally breathing out. The man, brunet, green-eyed, and mundanely handsome in the way the Raiffeisen likes them, smiles when he removes the stethoscope from Viktor’s chest. The doctor jots something down on the clipboard on the table before picking it up and turning back to him.

 

“Christophe has been telling me that you want to leave.” The doctor, who has a name that Viktor can never remember and who is the only one in the entire building that calls Christophe anything but Perchta or Giacometti, looks at him with the kind of steadiness that only ever comes with good training. “I would say that is a bad idea, since it was barely two months ago that you laid on the operating table with your lungs still growing in a vat next to you.”

 

Sometimes, Viktor thinks that he can feel it, that the lungs in his chest aren’t  _ truly _ his, that they were grown from a bit of unpoisoned tissue and a generous amount of stem cells, but he knows that isn’t true. He rubs a hand over his chest, anyway, imagines that he feels the way they fit just so slightly wrong. He doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know what to say. He knows he can’t leave yet. He also knows that he has to. The doctor continues, unperturbed by his silence.

 

“He also told me that you are refusing to call Gumilev or Gorodetsky. The treaties protect you, while you are on Swiss soil, but Christophe is worried about it anyway.” He says  _ Christophe _ with just a hint of a smile on his lips and Viktor wonders, briefly, if the good doctor loves Christophe the way Christophe loves Viktor. Impossible, unrequited and starcrossed. Both of them deserve better.

 

“He thinks that you want to die,” the doctor continues, calling Viktor suicidal with the same kind of level softness that he would tell him he had a flu, forest-green eyes holding Viktor’s gaze until Viktor breaks it to look at his hands.

 

“I don’t want to die,” he says, voice still rough from the disuse and the tubes that had been stuck down his throat for almost a solid month. “Not anymore.” He thinks about Georgi, whose chip had gone silent just by the edge of a waterfall, whose faceless body still hadn’t been found in the rushing water of the St. Johann Gorge. He wonders if Katsuki had made it quick, if he had snapped Georgi’s neck the way Viktor had snapped Yuuko’s, all those months ago. He wonders, a bit irrationally, if the death of Georgi was revenge for Yuuko and what to do with the dreadful tightening of his heart that comes with that particular train of thought.

 

“I understand that.” The doctor sighs, scribbling something else on the clipboard and resolutely keeping it out of Viktor’s sight when Russian cranes his neck slightly to try and see it. “But do you want to live, Viktor?”

 

It feels like a test.

 

Viktor opens his mouth to answer, but finds that he doesn’t know  _ how _ , and so he closes it again, saying nothing.

 

The doctor, steady and calm, sighs and gives a small smile. It feels almost like pity, and Viktor hates it.

 

“I’ll tell Christophe to tell Gumilev and Gorodetsky that you’re still unconscious. That should buy you some time.”

 

Viktor clutches the pale blue hospital blanket, the only color in the room except for the doctor’s dark green eyes, between still healing fingers and doesn’t say thank you.

 

**Zürich, Switzerland. March.**

“You have been hiding out for far too long.” Yakov’s hologram doesn’t quite have the weighty presence of the original, but the hardness of his tone is still enough to make Viktor’s back straighten by pure reflex. “It’s time to come home.”

 

The pale blue light emitted from the floating device that creates the hologram stains the white of the walls around them, makes them glow with the eeriness of its unnatural and cold light. 

 

It’s only been three months since Viktor saw Yakov last, but the man looks older. The weight of being Gorodetsky, the recruiter and trainer of the Acmeists, seems to lie heavier on broad shoulders than it used to.

 

“Have you replaced Ivanov yet?” Viktor says, a bit airily, voice carefully guarded underneath the slight glossiness of his tone. “I don’t do well without a babysitter.” It doesn’t show through the unevenness of the hologram, but Viktor knows the way Yakov’s jaw tighten at the words.

 

“I  _ raised _ both of you, Akhmatova,” the words are growled out through clenched teeth, “if you think I take this lightly—”

 

“It wasn’t  _ him _ , Yakov!” Viktor bursts out, with such force it makes his lungs ache. He winces, rubbing a hand over his chest. “I don’t know exactly what Anya did but Gosha wasn’t himself in the end.” 

 

“Well, maybe if you and that  _ boy _ had brought Anya in alive, we would’ve been able to question her about it,” Yakov bites out. “Instead, what I have, is your word that relies on the testimony of a traitor agent!”

 

Anya had been found dead, her throat slit. The clone, who Viktor had tried to save, was also presumed dead. There had been too many bodies outside of their vats, too many identical small bodies, to be sure. As expected, The Liechtenstein royals had refused autopsies. Instead, they closed ranks, and then quietly and with the bone-deep conviction that only ever came with old money and blue blood, shut out any agency not their own. Tiberius, the seventh son of a seventh son, had denied any further communication.

 

“I stand here with a dead Romanov and a scattered group of delusional conspirators who are threatening to reveal our secrets,  _ that they should not know in the first place _ , as revenge for the death of their regent!” Viktor had already heard the news, scattered in between the lessons Christophe taught his clone as Viktor pretended to sleep. He still finds it difficult to care, in between the aching of his new lungs and the remnants of Georgi still settled like thorns into his heart.

 

“And imagine my fucking surprise, Vitya, when I find a Salaryman on his knees in my office, begging my forgiveness because of their traitor agent?” The slightly tin-like quality of the holograms voice becomes almost jarring when the other man’s deep voice rises like the tide with his anger, but Viktor had been the subject of a thousand of this rants and knew them like the back of his hand, and so he doesn’t shrink away from the booming voice. Yakov, undeterred, continues.

 

“I told the Council that you had been fooled the way you have a tendency to be by a pretty face.” Viktor would wince at the older man’s words and surprises himself a bit when he doesn’t. “But this is a Goddamn mess.“

 

Katsuki had been gone from the scene before Christophe’s backup had arrived, presumably disappearing into thick forest as soon as he had taken care of Georgi. It had taken the Salarymen fourteen hours to declare him a rogue agent, the name of Hiroko Katsuki keeping the hope alive that the obvious truth of his betrayal would be a lie until the end. Christophe had asked him about it, almost nervously, and Viktor had told him that he didn’t know.

 

Viktor knows only two things. The first is that Katsuki played his cards close to his chest and it could be like the Council argues, that Katsuki betrayed his agency for a master hidden in the shadows. The second, a quieter thing, is the way Katsuki’s voice had wavered on the name of  _ Yuuko _ , and how he would never betray the name of a friend. Viktor, in the end, says neither, instead he cradles the memory of a soft and gentle smile almost jealously close.

 

“Not to mention that you almost caused a national incident, barging into another Agents territory like that.” Yakov runs a hand through his thinning hair, drum-like fingers dancing over the bare skin of his bald spot. “Vitya, you need to come home. None of this looks very good,” the man almost pleads. It itches along Viktor’s spine because of it’s fundamental wrongness. Yakov never pleaded.

 

_ None of this makes any sense _ , Katsuki had said, before the end.

 

Viktor, breathing easier with different lungs than three months ago, agrees. 

 

“No.” Viktor finds that once he has said the word, it comes easier the second time. “ _ No, _ ” he says, more resolutely, voice steady.

 

“Vitya—” The shock of the older man's voice carries through even through the hologram, and Viktor finds that he has to look away. “Vitya, Georgi would not have wanted you to—”

 

“Georgi would have wanted to live, Yakov,” Viktor grinds out, staring resolutely down onto the pale blue and rough fabric of the hospital blanket, “and since he can’t do that, anymore, I am going to find out what happened.” He swallows, and takes a deep breath, “What  _ really _ happened.”

 

“If you do this, I can’t protect you,” Yakov says, after a moment of silence, his broad and heavy jaw set. Viktor thinks about all the times the Council had been displeased with him, with his theatrics, with his bold statements and barely-anonymous persona. He thinks about how many times Yakov must’ve stood in front of the Council, back straight, and kept Viktor’s chip from being detonated. Viktor never had any parents and hadn’t really wanted any, not since he turned twelve, but he imagines that if someone asked him, he would’ve called Yakov his father.

 

“I know.” Viktor swallows around the words, squaring his chin in the same way Yakov does when the Council tries to make him send an Agent into a suicide mission. “I still have to do it.”

 

The hologram sparks with it’s silence, Yakov’s eyes fixed on Viktor’s face. When the older man speaks again, it is slow and deliberate,

 

“I have a report to finish. It will take me thirty minutes.” Yakov’s voice is so heavy, laced with equal amounts tiredness and anger. “Tell Perchta to get that chip out of you before that. After that, however, you’re on your own.”

 

“Give my title to Yuri, will you?” Viktor says, with a small smile. “He would make a far better Akhmatova than an Ivanov.”

 

“Thirty minutes, Vitya,” Yakov says, folding his arms behind his straight back. The silence stretches between them, heavy and pregnant with the things they aren’t telling each other. In the end, Yakov shakes his head, looks up, and Viktor can’t see it, but he can imagine the small smile on the older man’s lips as he says, “Good luck.”

 

The hologram sizzles out.

 

In thirty minutes, he will officially be declared a traitor. In thirty minutes, the Council he had served since he was sixteen years old will try to detonate the chip that is folded into the thick muscle of his neck.

 

After he presses the small button to his left, it takes barely five minutes for Chris to arrive, pale and determined, the doctor right behind him.

 

“Let’s do this,” Viktor says, sounding brave in every way that he truly isn’t. He, carefully, doesn’t think about Mila, or little Yuri, or Makkachin. Instead, he thinks about Georgi and a soft voice saying  _ none of this makes any sense _ .

 

Thirty minutes later, he stares into the mirror and wonders who he is now, when he’s no longer Akhmatova. He voices his concerns to the doctor, who is washing his hands vigorously in the steel sink. The doctor, his dark green eyes unfathomable above the surgeon’s mask, merely makes a small sound of amusement.

 

“Well, I guess that’s up to you to find out, isn’t it?”

 

Viktor curls his fingers over the aching spot behind his ear, careful not to disturb the stitches, and gives a thin, wobbly smile.

 

**Zürich, Switzerland. April.**

“You’re hiding,” Christophe tells him flatly, lounging in one of the chairs as Viktor runs on the treadmill in the middle of the room. He is wearing a deep, forest-green suit and dark brown brogues. It is almost somber, for Christophe, with nary a hint of diamonds or emeralds. His clone, blond and angelic, is sitting on the floor, carefully coloring in a coloring book Viktor had given him a couple of days ago.

 

“Am not,” Viktor pants out through strained intakes of breath, blinking away the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. Three doctors, one of whom is the one who looks at Christophe as if he hung the very moon in the sky, stand around Viktor, jotting down notes on their respective clipboards.

 

He feels like a lab rat, surrounded by machines and clean, clinical walls.

 

“It’s been almost three weeks since you talked to Gorodetsky,” Christophe sighs, running a hand through his recently sheared blonde hair. It’s shorter, almost short enough to hide the slight natural curl of it, and it makes Christophe look older. “I’m still fielding calls from the new Akhmatova.” He shakes his head. “Lot of anger in that one, for someone so small.”

 

“Investigations take time, Chris, you know that,” Viktor pants back, eternally grateful as one of the doctors reaches out to gradually turn the treadmill off. He takes the towel another doctor offers, wiping the sweat from his brow. “It would take  _ less _ if you—”

 

“Some of us still have our titles and would like to keep them, thank you.” Christophe narrows his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’m violating some kind of treaty by keeping you here, traitor as you are.” He glances down at the young clone on the floor, whose tongue sticks out through his lips as he carefully colors Winnie the Pooh in fluorescent green. “And besides, watching bad eighties movies is not  _ investigating. _ ” 

 

“It’s  _ something _ , at least,” Viktor mutters underneath his breath as he sits down heavily on an offered chair, duly leaning forward as a doctor presses her stethoscope onto his back. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know where to start,” he admits after a moment, hiding his embarrassment in the deep breath the doctor asks him to take to test the strain of his lungs.

 

Christophe raises an eyebrow and sighs when Viktor avoids his gaze. He opens his mouth to say something as the door suddenly opens, revealing a slightly mousy looking and gently attractive woman wearing a pastel-pink suit. She smiles, in an almost offensively pleasant way, and carefully bends to whisper something into Chris’ ear.

 

In response, Chris gives a low swear in French under his breath, making the green-eyed doctor tut at him with a fond smile. Chris rolls his eyes but rises from the chair with far more flair and grace than a physical therapist office requires.

 

“Since some of us still have our duties,” Chris says, straightening his jacket and dusting off his shoulders, “I have to leave.” He looks down to his clone who has glanced up from his painting, big green eyes blinking at the older Giacometti. “Keep an eye on him, will you?”

 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, already out the door as he says the last word. The clone, young and serious, gives a very resolute nod.

 

Viktor, feeling a bit insulted at having a barely ten year old babysitter, waves away the doctor who listens to his lungs.

 

“I feel  _ fine _ , honestly, stop that.”

 

When he was Akhmatova, people listened. Now that he’s Viktor, the doctor only gives him an unimpressed glance and presses the stethoscope back to between his shoulder blades. It’s not until the doctor with green eyes quietly tells her  _ that's enough _ , that she actually stops. They exchange another few words and then the doctor shakes her head, waving a hand at the third doctor to follow her before making for the exit.

 

“Rest a bit. We’ll be back in an hour.” The doctor with green eyes gives a comforting smile and VIktor feels like hissing at him. He doesn’t, firstly because he is a grown man and  _ secondly _ because even though he doesn’t have the title anymore, he’s still one of the best agents the Acmeists have ever produced. But he does glare, a bit haughtily, which seemingly helps nothing. The doctor just shakes his head and leaves, careful to step around the clone who has taken up his coloring again.

 

Viktor, with just a bit of dramatic flair, groans and leans his head backwards. He splays his legs, bringing up an arm to place over his head in what he knows is a rather attractive fashion. He groans again, for good measure, and wonders were to go from here. What is he going to do? Whatever leads he had when he woke up have either gone cold or led to nothing. Without the Acmeists support, people were reluctant to help, even those who used to know him. It would take time to build up trust again, time he didn’t feel like he had.

 

He takes a deep breath and runs two fingers over the scar where his chip used to be, and he can’t help but feel like it has all been absolutely  _ pointless _ . He is no closer to truth than he was when he woke up almost three months ago. He digs his fingers into his closed eyes, giving an exasperated sigh.

 

A small hand touches his arm and Viktor removes his hands and opens his eyes to look into the light green eyes of the clone.

 

“What?” He says, a bit rudely, narrowing his eyes. As the hand is withdrawn from his arm, he gives an apologetic shake of his head and starts again, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I—”

 

Viktor blinks when he sees what the clone is holding up to him, at the pale blue polyester tie clutched in small hands. It’s stained with old blood and an unidentifiable green substance but—

 

“He came back,” Viktor says underneath his breath, the hint of disbelief that stains his first words are slowly replaced by wonderment. “ _ He came back _ ,” he repeats, reaching for the fabric with slightly trembling hands.

 

The clone tilts his head, blinking slowly with large, green eyes.

 

Yuuri had worn the tie when Viktor had sent him after Georgi, the only way it ended up here, smeared in what can only be Viktor’s blood, is because the man must’ve  _ returned _ . Viktor grasps the tie tightly in his hands, swallowing tight around the burst of feelings that claws its way from his heart and into his throat.

 

The tie answers a question he hadn’t thought to ask, but it also gives him ground for a thousand others. Why hadn’t Yuuri stayed? Why had Yuuri, who had returned to find Viktor bleeding and barely breathing, left again only moments later? 

 

It’s still more of a lead than he has had for months. Viktor grasps the tie in his hands, looks at the clone, who meets his gaze head on and nods solemnly, pointing at the tie.

 

“Start,” the clone says, voice barely a whisper, and Viktor nods back, fingers tight around the ugly, blue polyester tie.

 

**Hasetsu. Spring.**

Viktor arrives with the newly-fallen snow, pulling fresh and cold air into his lungs. The town of Hasetsu rests along the coast like a lazily sleeping cat, the buildings built in a tight curl to protects its heart, an Inn called Yu-topia.

 

He is met by friendly smiles and slightly guarded glances, but nothing that can’t be won over by a broad smile and niceties sprouted in horrendously broken Japanese. He doesn’t ask for Yuuri, but instead he asks for the hot-springs and the family who runs it.

 

“Ah, the Katsuki’s?” an old fisherman says, running his hand over his whiskered chin. “They’ve been here longer than the town itself,” he pauses, squinting at Viktor the way he would squint at the setting sun. “They run Yu-topia, you see, and the entire town sprung up around it, once upon a time.”

 

It doesn’t seem to be a secret, Viktor finds, that the Katsuki’s are a family to be respected, even if no one can quite tell him the reason why. He wonders if the residency of the most legendary of all Salarymen, whose drably dressed agents litter the entire country of Japan, was the reason for the strange lack of presence the agency kept here in Hasetsu.

 

It’s strangely anti-climatic, finding Yuuri again.

 

The man in question, dressed in that ridiculous puffer-jacket of his, is outside his family's inn shoveling snow. Viktor, who has been planning this moment since he stepped off the plane, suddenly finds himself at a loss for words. In the end, he settles for a raised hand, a small smile and a softly uttered, 

 

“Yuuri.”

 

The other man pauses, looking up from his work. The light from the sun catches on the his glasses and for a moment Viktor’s heart leaps into his throat.

 

Yuuri looks over to him, cheeks tinged with pink and red and Viktor’s breath stutters slightly in his chest.

 

“Viktor.” His voice is soft and gentle, every puff of breath resting as steam in the air. “You took your time.”

 

“Yeah. I—” Viktor laughs, running a hand over the edges of his smile, “I got a bit lost, on the way.”

 

The silence stretches between them, like it so often does, but as the sun slowly sets over the mountains, last gentle fingers of sunlight yawning over the small, sleepy town of Hasetsu and its well-known secret, Viktor looks at Yuuri and feels peace.

 

And Yuuri, gentle and soft and looking absolutely ridiculous in a too-big jacket and colorful mittens, smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! That was... this fic done with. Now, I don’t know how many people are going to be excited about it, but there was always going to be a sequel fic. This was supposed to be, like, the banquet (doesn’t recognize Yuuri - danceoff with Yurio - dance with Chris - bonding between Viktor and Yuuri) from Viktor’s POV.
> 
> I know there are some loose ends, but once we get away from only-Viktors-POV there will be a lot more details about it. Viktor is a good agent but a pretty shitty detective, so he doesn’t spend a lot of time reflecting on the Tsarists and their plot to kind of resurrect the Romanovs. This fic was supposed to introduce people to the world of super secret spy agencies through the deeply character driven POV of Viktor, and I really hope that it went well enough?
> 
> I hope some of you stick around for the sequel fic, where I will continue to jot down my favourite spy-tropes and then dress all the characters up in pretty clothing and make them dance. The response for this fic has been absolutely amazing and I am just mindblown and really really happy about the feedback, the hits and the kudos. Thank you guys SO MUCH for sticking with me through my floundering english, weird turns-of-phrases and odd plot twists.
> 
> The sequel fic is still in planning stage, so if you have some favourite tropes or some questions that you really want answered, either send me a message on tumblr (@metasyster) or leave a comment, maybe? Or, you know, think really hard about it and hopefully I’ll pick it up by telepathy.
> 
> And customary thanks to my beta, Pardonthelitany, who has been wrangling this epilogue into shape. Couldn’t do it without you <3


End file.
